SILENT 
LEGION 


THE  SILENT  LEGION 
J.  E.  BUCKROSE 


THE 

SILENT  LEGION 


BY 


J.  E.  BUCKROSE,/; 


AUTHOR  OF 
THE  GOSSIP  SHOP,  ETC. 


A **' 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

P  U:B  L  I  S  H  E  R  S 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED   STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


CHAPTER 

I   THE  BANNER 9 

II   ONE  LITTLE  COMPANY 22 

HI   A  DAY  IN  THE  AVENUE 43 

IV   A  SOLDIER 6l 

V   LITTLE  WHEELS  WITHIN  WHEELS    ....  7& 

VI   PICTURES 91 

VII   SIGNALS I05 

VIII    SATURDAY  AFTERNOON 122 

LX   THE  AMATEUR  DETECTIVES 137 

X   A  HOLIDAY I54 

XI   SEA-WIND J67 

XII   PARTING   ...               *&4 

XIII  THE  END  OF  SUMMER IQ3 

XIV  SACRIFICE 211 

xv  A  JOURNEY'S  END 232 

XVI   CHELTENHAM 251 

XVH   THE  RETURN 267 

XVIH   CHANGE 2&3 

XIX  WHAT  REMAINS 3°° 


2136499 


THE  SILENT  LEGION 


THE  SILENT  LEGION 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  BANNER 

CHESTNUT  AVENUE  is  a  long  street,  with  a 
high  wall  concealing  the  railway  lines  at  one  end 
and  a  main  road  running  across  the  other.  In  it  is  a 
constant  noise  of  wheels,  car-bells,  distant  footsteps 
and  newsboys  shouting.  But  as  all  these  sounds  are  a 
little  softened  by  distance,  they  mingle  together  and 
form  an  accompaniment  to  which  every  life  in  the 
Avenue  is  set. 

Babies  are  ushered  into  the  grimy  brick  houses  from 
that  vague  place  where  new  souls  wait  with  a  Swish ! 
Boom!  Ting-ting!  and  the  high,  sudden  O-oh!  of 
an  engine  whistle  over  the  wall.  And  it  is  thus  the 
tired  souls  go  out. 

But  those  who  are  actually  living  there  do  not  hear 
these  sounds  at  all  unless  they  are  ill,  or  very  unhappy, 
or  very  tired ;  then  they  feel  a  little  forlorn,  like  people 
standing  alone  by  the  sea  at  evening  with  the  drawing 
back  of  the  waves  in  their  ears. 

Nobody  knows  why  the  street  was  originally  called 
Chestnut  Avenue,  for  it  contains  only  blackened  plane- 
trees  and  has  produced  no  chestnuts  within  the  memory 

9 


10  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

of  man — saving  only  those  verbal  ones  which  fat 
fathers  like  Mr.  Simpson  throw  at  other  fat  fathers 
over  garden  railings  after  business  hours.  It  is,  in- 
deed, believed  that  the  famous  "When  is  a  door  not  a 
door?"  found  its  last  resting-place  in  Mr.  Simpson's 
back-garden.  He  certainly  still  employs  the  joke  about 
the  curate's  egg. 

On  this  spring  afternoon  of  1917  he  stood  resting 
on  his  spade,  wiping  the  sweat  from  his  forehead  with 
a  trembling  hand  and  wondering  for  the  moment  if 
there  were  anything  wrong  with  his  heart.  His  round, 
bald  head  and  little  trim  legs  and  big  stomach  curving 
under  a  thin  waistcoat  were  strongly  illuminated  by 
the  greyish,  yellowish  radiance  which  is  afternoon  sun- 
shine in  Flodmouth. 

He  had  no  idea  at  all  that  he  was  a  hero.  As  a 
plain  matter  of  fact,  he  would  have  been  exceedingly 
annoyed  had  any  one  called  him  any  such  thing,  and 
would  have  crossed  over  the  road  in  future  to  avoid 
that  person's  society.  For  he  shared  to  the  full  that 
strange  instinct  which  forbids  the  middle  class  to  blow 
its  own  trumpet. 

This  is  all  the  more  strange  now  because  everybody 
else  does  it.  The  upper  class  has  blown  delicately 
for  ages  through  long  silver  trumpets,  of  course;  and 
only  yesterday,  as  time  goes  in  history,  the  working- 
class  suddenly  began  to  blow  brass  ones  so  loudly — 
perhaps  in  a  reaction  after  centuries  of  silence — that 
the  silver  trumpets  could  no  longer  be  heard.  But 
the  class  to  which  Mr.  Simpson  belongs  simply  does 
not  blow. 

Many  members  of  it,  like  Mr.  Simpson's  sister-in- 
law,  are  even  ashamed  of  being  called  "middle-class." 


THE  BANNER  11 

These  are  the  traitors.  And  when  Mrs.  Horace  Simp- 
son went  to  associate  in  Bath  with  a  few  ancient  off- 
shoots of  the  aristocracy  who  had  put  into  port  there" 
after  the  storms  of  life,  she  suppressed  any  mention  of 
the  Simpsons  and  trotted  out  constantly  an  aunt  of  her 
own  who  had  married  an  Archdeacon  in  the  North 
Riding  of  Yorkshire.  But  beyond  withdrawing  her 
capital  and  further  embarrassing  Mr.  Simpson's  busi- 
ness, she  soon  ceased  to  trouble  her  relatives  in  Chest- 
nut Avenue. 

It  was  in  the  September  of  1914  that  her  husband, 
Major  Horace  Simpson  of  the  Territorials,  had  sud- 
denly ceased  to  go  into  Flodmouth  every  day  with  a 
little  black  bag  and  a  flower  in  his  button-hole:  and 
almost  next  day,  as  it  seemed,  he  had  died  gloriously 
for  his  country,  leading  a  forlorn  hope. 

The  news  fell  so  strangely  then  on  Chestnut  Avenue. 
The  people  there  had  hated  war  and  had  absolutely 
believed  in  the  impossibility  of  it,  in  these  enlightened 
days.  The  idea  of  taking  the  life  of  another  man  with 
whom  they  had  no  personal  quarrel  seemed  intolerable 
to  them.  But  at  the  news  of  Major  Simpson's  death 
they  began  to  steel  themselves,  as  if  they  had  seen  a 
friend  struck  down  beside  them. 

Then  time  went  on  a  little  and  so  many  things 
happened  that  he  seemed  to  be  quickly  out  of  mind — 
as  if  he  had  never  lived.  Mr.  Simpson  might  be  for- 
given for  thinking — as  he  sometimes  did  think — that 
his  only  brother  had  died  in  vain.  But  this  was  not 
so;  for  a  wind  of  the  spirit  passed  then  through  the 
grey  streets  of  Flodmouth,  raising  dead  things  to  life 
in  the  old  city  like  the  rustling  wind  in  the  cave  of 
Elijah.  It  was  indeed  the  almost  forgotten  glory  of 


12  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

sacrifice  that  came  alive  again  when  the  news-boy  ran 
about  shouting:  "Speshul  Edeetion!  Loss  of  a  well- 
known  Flodmouth  officer!" 

But  all  this  took  place  nearly  three  years  ago,  and 
since  that  time  Mr.  Simpson's  only  son  Jim  had  joined 
up,  been  trained  and  fallen.  Nobody  knows  what 
the  Simpsons  felt  about  that — nobody,  that  is,  except- 
ing the  thousands  who  have  felt  the  same — for  they 
kept  their  heads  up  and  went  about  as  usual. 

Neighbours  said  Mrs.  Simpson  was  "wonderful"; 
and  as  she  came  down  the  garden  path  in  the  sunlight, 
it  might  be  seen  that  she  had  perhaps  been  just  a 
little  too  "wonderful."  Her  hair  was  whitening  very 
fast  and  her  face  had  an  opaque  pallor.  It  was  just 
at  the  most  trying  period  of  her  physical  life  that  she 
had  been  called  upon  to  bear  a  shock  and  sorrow  greafr- 
er  than  any  she  had  ever  known.  But  she  smiled  at 
her  husband  as  she  saw  him  wiping  his  forehead,  and 
said  cheerfully  enough — 

"Honest  sweat!  We  shall  soon  all  think  we're 
back  in  the  Garden  of  Eden.  I've  just  seen  Binny  go 
by  with  a  spade  over  his  shoulder  instead  of  golf- 
clubs."  She  paused.  "I'm  glad  you  took  a  holiday 
this  afternoon." 

His  face  clouded  and  he  left  his  spade  in  the  ground. 

"Yes.  The  fresh  air  seems  to  suit  me.  I — I  hope 
to  get  more  of  it."  He  waited  a  minute,  but  it  was 
no  good;  he  must  tell  her  before  their  daughter  Bar- 
bara came  home,  and  she  was  expected  that  evening. 
"Harriet,  I  shall  have  to  close  the  business  down.  I 
shan't  be  going  any  more.  There's  nothing  to  do. 
I've  only  been  hanging  about,  playing  at  it,  for  weeks." 

Mrs.  Simpson  was  silent,  struggling  with  a  feeling 


THE  BANNER 13 

of  f aintness ;  then  she  said  in  a  low  tone :  "You  ought 
to  have  told  me  before,  Sam." 

"I  knew  you  would  say  so ;  but  the  doctor  expressly 
warned  me,  after  you  had  that  last  heart  attack,  that 
you  were  not  to  have  any  suspense  or  worry.  I  did 
it  for  the  best,  Harriet.  I  thought  you'd  bear  it  bet- 
ter when  you  had  Barbara  here  to  cheer  you  up." 

"Was  that  was  why  you  would  send  for  Barbara?" 

"No,  not  altogether :  with  no  servant,  and  you  ill, 
the  doctor  insisted  on  my  sending  for  her.  And  after 
all,  who  should  she  nurse  before  her  own  mother?" 

"She  is  so  disappointed,  though.  Poor  little  Bar- 
bara! Oh,  I  do  so  hate  bringing  her  home  from  the 
hospital  on  my  account.  I'd  rather  have  done  any- 
thing," said  Mrs.  Simpson. 

"Well,  it  can't  be  helped,"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  ad- 
vancing down  the  walk  with  his  light,  cork-like  step, 
which  went  so  oddly  with  his  bulky  figure.  "We'd 
better  go  in  and  have  supper.  It  will  be  time  to  go 
to  the  station  directly." 

Mrs.  Simpson  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  looked 
into  his  face  with  her  faded  blue  eyes,  which  had  been 
nearly  as  bright  as  Barbara's  before  Jim  went. 
"Sam,"  she  said,  "are  you  keeping  anything  else  from 
me  ?  I  can't  bear  that,  you  know." 

"No,  Harriet,  I'm  not." 

"You  mean  it?     On  your  honour?" 

"I  do  indeed.  On  my  honour,  my  dear."  He 
paused,  then  added  as  they  entered  the  house:  "I 
don't  see  why  you  should  think  Barbara  is  so  disap- 
pointed; she  never  wrote  a  word  to  that  effect  in  her 
letters." 


14  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"As  if  it  were  what  she  wrote.  It's  what  she's  left 
unwritten." 

"Oh,  you  women !  Always  trying  to  ferret  out  some- 
thing underneath!"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  rubbing  his 
feet  energetically  on  the  mat.  "Anyway,  with  you  ill, 
and  Elsie  home  from  school  with  a  weak  back,  she'd 
got  to  come — there  was  nothing  else  for  it." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  sat  at  the  dining-table,  on 
which  Elsie,  a  thin,  sallow,  peaked-looking  girl  of 
fifteen,  with  great,  brown  eyes,  had  just  placed  a  dish 
of  curried  butter  beans. 

"I  hope  you're  not  tired  of  them,  Father?"  she 
said.  "We're  told  to  eat  beans.  They  say  there  is 
more  nourishment  to  the  square  inch  in  beans  than  in 
beef -steak." 

"U-um !"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  drawing  a  long  breath. 
"They  smell  delicious  .  .  .  delicious!" 

But  Elsie  noticed  that  he  did  not  take  a  large  helping 
himself,  and  soon  afterwards  she  ran  him  to  earth  in 
the  scullery  with  the  carbonate  of  soda  bottle  in  one 
hand  and  a  glass  of  hot  water  in  the  other. 

"Ha!"  she  said,  bursting  out  upon  him  suddenly 
from  the  door.  "You  think  I  don't  know.  I  do. 
You've  got  indigestion." 

"I  have  not,"  said  Mr.  Simpson  emphatically:  and 
he  added,  trying  to  work  himself  up  into  a  slight 
temper :  "Surely  I  can  drink  what  I  like  in  my  own 
house." 

But  he  had,  all  unawares,  waved  the  great  banner  of 
the  middle-class.  It  floated  above  the  scullery  sink, 
with  its  undramatic  legend :  "Bear  and  Say  Nothing," 
even  while  he  concluded  somewhat  irritably:  "Go 


THE  BANNER 


and  get  your  things  on,  Elsie.  We  shall  be  late  for  the 
train." 

So  the  three  of  them,  walking  very  slowly  because  of 
Mrs.  Simpson,  made  their  way  towards  the  railway 
station  against  a  stream  of  bright-eyed,  powdered, 
silk-stockinged  clerks  and  typists.  The  brisk  self- 
reliance  of  the  girls  made  this  stream  as  vital  as  a  clear 
brook  running  over  stones,  and  the  dull  air  seemed  the 
fresher  for  it,  in  spite  of  a  certain  odour  of  cheapish 
scent. 

As  the  Simpsons  entered  the  station  they  encoun- 
tered a  tall,  handsome,  rather  heavily  built  man  of 
about  forty-three,  who  stopped  and  spoke  to  them. 

"Whither  away?"  he  said  with  an  affectation  of 
gallantry.  "It's  ages  since  I  saw  you." 

"We  are  meeting  Barbara,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson. 

"Oh!"  He  grew  immediately  alert  and  interested. 
"Is  she  coming  home  for  a  holiday?" 

"No,  Garret,  for  good,"  said  Mr.  Simpson.  "My 
wife  has  not  been  well  and  we  are  obliged  to  have 
Barbara  at  home." 

"Glad  to  hear  that.  Well,  good-night.  Only  just 
going  out  by  this  train.  Doing  the  work  of  three. 
We  are  absolutely  understaffed  and  crowded  with  work 
at  our  office.  Good-night,  Mrs.  Simpson.  So  glad  to 
have  seen  you." 

"Well,"  said  Elsie  looking  after  him,  "it's  more  than 
I  am.  I  hate  to  see  that  Frank  Garret  bursting  with 
prosperity  —  and  his  button-hole  and  all.  I  hate 
him  !" 

"Hush,  Elsie!"  said  Mrs.  Simpson. 

"Why  didn't  he  enlist,  then?"  demanded  Elsie  . 

"Well,  you  know  he   is   over   age;   and  he   is   an 


i6 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

accountant,"  said  Mr.  Simpson.  "They  can't  be  done 
without  at  this  time." 

"I  don't  care :  I  wish  he  would  go  away  from  Flod- 
mouth,"  said  Elsie  vehemently.  "He  will  only  come 
sneaking  round  Barbara  again,  and  she  has  wasted 
five  or  six  years  of  her  life  over  him  already." 

"Nonsense !"  said  Mrs.  Simpson.  "There  has  never 
been  anything  serious  between  Barbara  and  Frank 
Garret."  (She  gave  him  both  names  as  did  every 
one  in  Flodmouth — the  very  newsboys  and  shop- 
girls saying  on  seeing  him :  "There  goes  Frank 
Garret!") 

"Of  course  there's  been  nothing  serious,"  said  Elsie. 
"But  that  wasn't  Barbara's  fault.  It  was  he  who 
couldn't  make  up  his  mind  to  do  without  luxuries  and 
live  in  a  side  street.  He  loved  Barbara  a  little  less  than 
his  motor-car." 

"Elsie !"  commanded  Mrs.  Simpson.  "I  won't  have 
you  talk  like  that  about  your  sister.  I  am  afraid  you 
have  got  spoilt  since  she  has  been  away." 

"Well,  she  needn't  think  she  is  going  to  come  the 
elder  sister  over  me  when  she  does  come  back,"  mut- 
tered Elsie.  "And  I  only  talk  like  that  because  I 
love  her.  I  hated  to  see  him  flirting  round  with  all 
the  girls  and  just  tossing  over  Barbara  a  look  when  he 
felt  inclined." 

"Now  it's  'hate.'  She's  always  riding  some  word 
to  death,"  chuckled  Mr.  Simpson.  "Bless  me,  Elsie, 
if  a  young  man  can't  look  round  him  a  bit,  things 
have  got  to  a  queer  pass.  I'm  sure  Barbara  doesn't 
bother  her  head  about  him  one  way  or  another." 

"Of  course  not,"  agreed  Mrs.  Simpson  at  once — 


THE  BANNER  17 

though  her  whole  being  had  responded  to  Elsie's  tirade 
with  a  quivering  intensity. 

And  as  they  waited,  little  groups  of  soldiers  went 
through  the  station,  looking  already  in  expression  and 
bearing  a  race  apart,  though  so  recently  civilians  like 
the  rest.  The  air  had  the  peculiar  deadness  common 
to  terminus  stations,  and  the  Simpsons'  disjointed 
remarks  fell  dully  on  it — quite  differently  from  words 
spoken  in  the  fresh,  outer  air.  But  the  three  seemed 
gay  enough  as  they  stood  there,  and  some  acquaintance 
crossing  to  the  bookstall  spoke  of  them. 

"You'd  wonder  the  Simpsons  would  seem  in  such 
good  spirits  when  you  remember  how  their  Jim  went 
out  for  the  last  time  just  about  this  hour.  I  hap- 
pened to  be  there,  and  I  saw  him — so  handsome  and 
jolly." 

"Yes.  Perhaps  they  haven't  thought  of  it.  People 
take  things  differently.  Let's  go  and  see  the  soldiers 
off " 

But  five  minutes  later,  when  a  train  ran  out  of  the 
station  with  the  lads  all  waving  and  singing,  the  hearts 
of  the  Simpsons  seemed  ready  to  burst.  They  strove 
to  hide  this  from  each  other,  though  Mr.  Simpson 
walked  away  a  few  steps  muttering  to  himself :  "I 
could  bear  it  all  right  if  only  the  lads  wouldn't  be  so 
dam  jolly."  But  he  very  soon  came  back  to  say  with 
a  breezy  air:  "Nasty  draught  in  this  station  always!" 
He  paused,  then  added  with  a  poor  imitation  of  his 
familiar  chuckle — that  fat  chuckle  which  always 
seemed  to  be  enjoying  itself  somewhere  behind  his 
waistcoat  before  coming  forth :  "A  black  draught,  eh, 
Elsie?" 

"I  hate  jokes  when  I'm  tired,"  said  Elsie,  pretend- 


i8  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

ing  to  take  some  grime  out  of  her  eye.  "Oh,  here's 
Barbara's  train  at  last!" 

So  they  all  turned  toward  the  barrier,  beyond  which 
a  brown-haired,  blue-eyed  girl  came  hurrying  towards 
them.  She  was  of  middle  height  and  plumper  than 
she  would  have  wished,  her  admiration  being  for  lean 
and  sinuous  ladies.  But  with  her  dimples  showing, 
and  the  clear  red  in  her  cheeks,  she  seemed  lovely  to 
the  little  group  waiting  for  her. 

"Mother!"  she  said,  kissing  the  pale  face  with  a 
quick  compunction  for  her  own  reluctance  in  coming 
home.  "Are  you  better  ?  Ought  you  to  have  met  me  ?" 

"Barbara!"  whispered  Mrs.  Simpson,  almost  tim- 
idly, "I'm  so  sorry,  dear,  I  had  to  send  for  you.  I 
didn't  want  them  to  tell  you." 

Tears  rose  in  Barbara's  eyes.  It  was  all  very  well 
being  reluctant  to  leave  the  hospital,  and  talking  re- 
belliously  to  friends  in  the  rest-room  about  living  your 
own  life  and  not  being  hampered  by  home  ties — but 
at  the  sight  of  her  mother's  trembling  lip  that  all  van- 
ished like  smoke  for  the  moment. 

"I'm  glad  I  came.  I  should  never  have  forgiven 
them  if  they  had  not  sent  for  me,"  she  said  eagerly. 

Upstairs  in  the  long  attic  which  ran  across  the  whole 
breadth  of  the  house,  Barbara  unpacked  while  her 
young  sister  sat  on  the  bed  and  talked  with  her.  When 
it  was  all  finished,  she  went  to  the  window  and  leaned 
out,  looking  across  a  grimy  plane-tree  which  grew  in 
the  little  front  garden.  She  was  conscious  of  hearing 
the  sounds  of  Flodmouth  because  she  had  been  a  year 
away,  and  she  felt,  as  she  leaned  there  watching  the 
shadowy  houses  opposite,  like  a  person  who  has  lived 


THE  BANNER  19 

in  childhood  by  the  sea  and  has  come  back  after  a  long 
absence.  The  familiar  Swish!  Boom!  Ting-ting! 
and  the  shrieking  O-oh !  of  the  engine  were  very  dear 
to  her  just  then. 

"Nice  to  be  back  again!"  So  she  voiced  it  all,  not 
turning  round  from  the  window. 

"Um.  Glad  you  think  so,"  said  Elsie.  "  'Fraid 
you'll  tell  a  different  tale  before  long.  You  won't 
find  it  entirely  beer  and  skittles  doing  general  servant 
without  any  wages,  I  bet." 

"I  daresay  not.  But  it's  not  very  funny  for  poor 
Dad  either,  having  to  give  up  his  business." 

"It's  his  business  that's  given  him  up,"  said  Elsie. 
"Now,  I  s'pose  he'll  have  to  go  round  cap  in  hand  to 
try  and  find  a  job  in  somebody  else's  office.  Nice 
thing  for  our  father — after  the  way  he  has  always 
been  looked  up  to." 

"Well  ...  no  good  grousing.  What  has  to  be 
must  be,"  said  Barbara.  Then  she  pulled  down  the 
blinds  and  went  back  into  the  room.  "You  look 
dog-tired.  Let's  get  to  bed,  Elsie." 

"I  am  tired.  I'm  always  tired.  Oh,  Barbara,  I 
hate  being  such  a  crock.  It  is  horrid." 

"Poor  old  Elsie!  I  know  it  must  be.  But  you'll 
grow  out  of  it,"  said  Barbara,  in  her  clear  voice,  which 
took  on  such  deep  notes — crooning  notes,  they  were — 
when  she  wanted  to  be  kind. 

"All  very  well  for  you  to  talk :  standing  there  look- 
ing as  strong  as  a  horse!"  flung  out  fretful,  over- 
tired Elsie.  "I  suppose  you  think  you  are  going  to 
marry  that  odious  Frank  Garret  now,  and  get  out 
of  it  all.  But  you  won't.  You'll  be  just  like  Miss 
Lotty  Felling,  who  has  gone  on  waiting  and  waiting 


20  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

for  that  silly  old  Binny  next  door  until  they  are  both 
old." 

"Rot !  Nobody  could  imagine  Miss  Felling  waiting 
for  any  man,"  retorted  Barbara. 

"No,"  said  the  incorrigible  Elsie,  "I  daresay  not. 
But  the  kind  of  waiting  female  who  shows  the  waiting 
is  really  saying  'Come  on!'  And  he  often  does. 
Neither  you  nor  Miss  Felling  are  that  sort." 

"Really,  Elsie,"  said  Barbara,  "when  I  was  your 
age " 

"You  twiddled  your  thumbs  when  spoken  to  and 
were  respectful  to  your  elders,  of  course,"  said  Elsie. 

"Come,  Elsie,  don't  be  so  cross  on  my  first  night 
at  home,"  said  Barbara. 

"I'm  just  going  to  be  how  I  like,"  said  Elsie.  "You 
needn't  think  you  can  come  the  elder  sister  over  me 
now  you  have  got  back,  because  I  shan't  have  it." 

Barbara  made  no  remark,  and  the  two  girls  went  on 
silently  with  their  undressing.  At  last  the  light  was 
out,  and  they  lay  side  by  side  on  the  two  little  narrow; 
beds  as  they  had  done  since  they  were  children. 

"Barbie,"  whispered  Elsie  then,  stretching  out  a 
feverish  claw.  "I'm  so  sorry  I've  been  such  a  pig 
on  your  first  night  at  home — when  you  have  given  up 
your  nursing  and  all  to  come  and  look  after  us.  I 
believe  it  was  partly  because  I  got  so  excited  about 
your  coming.  I  couldn't  sleep  last  night  for  thinking 
about  it." 

"Dear  old  Elsie,"  murmured  Barbara,  squeezing 
the  little  hot  hand. 

Elsie  withdrew  it  at  once  and  they  immediately  be- 
gan to  speak  of  a  blouse  which  Barbara  had  brought 


THE  BANNER  21 

for  a  present ,  but  even  this  slight  caress  meant  a  great , 
deal  to  the  undemonstrative  sisters. 

In  the  room  beneath  the  girls'  attic,  Mr.  Simpson  lay 
by  his  wife  under  bedclothes  made  extra  large  to 
accommodate  the  hill  created  by  his  figure;  he  object- 
ing, as  he  always  said,  to  "scrapping  for  the  blanket." 
Towards  dawn  the  hillcock  heaved,  and  Mrs.  Simpson 
said  softly — 

"Awake,  Sam?" 

"Yes." 

"Been  awake  a  long  time?" 

"Oh,  a  bit.    Not  long,"  lied  Mr.  Simpson. 

"You're  bothering  about  the  business,  of  course. 
It  is  hard  on  you,  Sam,  after  spending  the  best  years 
of  your  life  in  building  it  up  from  nothing." 

"Lots  in  the  same  box,"  said  Mr.  Simpson.  "I 
don't  pretend  to  like  it,  of  course.  But  there  it  is !" 

Silence  fell  again,  and  about  the  time  when  the  first 
workman's  cars  began  to  run  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Simpson 
at  last  went  to  sleep.  They  snored  a  little,  with  heavy 
middle-aged  faces  pressed  into  their  pillow,  but  the 
banner  was  above  their  heads. 


CHAPTER  II 

ONE  LITTLE  COMPANY 

THE  Simpsons'  drawing-room  looked  upon  the 
street,  and  the  few  women  gathered  in  it  were 
knitting  for  the  soldiers.  The  near  sound  of  clicking 
needles  made  a  delicate  music  to  the  unnoticed  accom- 
paniment of  the  mingled  noises  of  Flodmouth  outside, 
and  it  floated  through  the  open  window  to  join  the 
music  of  knitters  all  over  England.  It  rose — it  must 
have  risen,  made  by  those  who  had  suffered  so  much 
— to  a  heaven  of  pity  and  love. 

But  the  women  there  did  not  realise  this,  of  course, 
and  talked  of  ordinary  things. 

"Barbara  back  again,  Mrs.  Simpson." 

"Yes.  We  were  so  sorry  we  had  to  bring  her 
back." 

Miss  Felling,  a  tall,  middle-aged  spinster,  with  a 
large  red  nose  that  was  perched  in  the  centre  of  a 
charming  face  with  the  oddest  effect  of  incongruity, 
put  down  her  knitting  and  said  rather  dictatorially— 

"I  call  it  silly  to  bring  a  girl  like  Barbara  back 
from  the  hospital  just  to  do  the  work  of  a  general 
servant." 

"Who  did?"  retorted  Elsie  rudely,  up  in  arms  at 
once  against  Miss  Felling  whom  she  disliked,  probably 
because  they  were  rather  akin.  "It  was  because 
mother  was  ill.  Besides,  it's  all  very  well  for  you  to 

22 


ONE  LITTLE  COMPANY 23 

talk,  with  an  excellent  servant  of  your  own  to  do 
everything  for  you." 

Miss  Felling  restrained  the  words  "spoilt  monkey!" 
from  crossing  her  lips,  and  said  to  Mrs.  Simpson :  "I 
only  wish  my  maid  were  so  excellent.  Oh,  the  times 
I  have  longed  for  Lillie  back !" 

"Yes.  Yes.  She  was  indeed  a  treasure,"  said  the 
others  in  a  sort  of  ecstatic  chorus. 

Then  Barbara  said  from  her  place  by  the  window, 
"There's  a  telegraph  boy  going  up  the  street." 

"Oh!     Not  coming  here,  is  he?" 

And  they  all  pretended  to  be  engrossed  in  their 
knitting,  but  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  window.  Young 
Mrs.  Du  Caine's  blouse  rose  and  fell  quickly,  though 
she  went  on  knitting  just  the  same;  but  it  was  strange 
what  an  atmosphere  of  cold  suspense  could  be  created 
in  a  cheerful  chintz-covered  room  by  the  sight  of  a 
telegraph  boy  cycling  up  the  street.  It  was,  really, 
as  if  those  women  saw  Death  and  Fate  stalking  visibly 
along  between  the  grimy  brick  houses,  ready  to  pause 
before  any  one  of  them.  At  last  the  boy  stopped 
just  outside  Mrs.  Wilson's  next  door — Mrs.  Wilson 
who  had  a  son  in  the  trenches  just  then  and  a  girl  at  a 
hospital  in  France — and  when  the  lad  alighted  from 
his  bicycle  her  heart  almost  ceased  beating.  It  was 
a  most  terrible,  grotesque  game  of  "Throw  the  Hand- 
kerchief" that  Fate  and  Death  and  the  telegraph  boy 
and  these  women  were  playing  at.  ...  Then  the 
yellow  envelope  was  handed  to  a  lean  gentleman  who 
stood  outside  in  the  road  and  who  opened  it  with 
obvious  unconcern. 

"A  business  telegram  for  Mr.  Binny,"  said  Barbara, 
in  an  even  tone  from  her  post  nearest  the  window. 


24  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

,  Followed  a  slight  rustle  in  the  room  as  the  women's 
bodies  relaxed  from  the  rigid  attitudes  they  had  uncon- 
sciously taken,  but  nothing  more  was  said  concerning 
the  telegraph  boy.  The  conversation  about  Miss  Pel- 
ling's  Lillie  was  resumed  where  it  had  been  left  off. 

"You'll  never  look  on  her  like  again  for  polishing 
mahogany  furniture." 

"No.  And  so  dependable.  It  was  a  tragedy  for 
you  when  she  got  married  to  that  soldier." 

There  was  a  pause,  then  Mrs.  Simpson  said :  "Have 
you  heard  from  her  lately?" 

"Not  a  word  for  months,"  said  Miss  Felling. 

"How  ungrateful — after  all  you  did.  But  you  learn 
not  to  expect  gratitude,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson  heavily. 
She  was  a  woman  with  flat  feet  and  the  rather  flat- 
footed  mind  which  so  often  (and  so  curiously)  goes 
with  them. 

"Oh,  she  behaved  well  to  me.  I  shall  always  have 
a  kindly  feeling  towards  her,"  said  Miss  Felling. 

"Housekeeping  is  indeed  a  responsibility  in  these 
days,"  said  Mrs.  Bellerby,  a  lady  with  two  fluffy 
daughters — the  only  fluffy  girls  left  in  the  Avenue. 
"I  don't  know  what  my  poor  Blanche  will  do  when 
she  settles  down,  for  it  will  not  be  one  servant  in  her 
case  but  half-a-dozen." 

"So  Blanche  is  to  be  married  directly,"  said  Barbara 
good-naturedly ;  but  the  other  ladies  had  already  heard 
all  the  details  of  Blanche's  military  romance,  future 
high  connections  and  wedding  gifts  from  the  bride- 
groom's family,  and  they  declined  a  further  instal- 
ment. 

"I  hear,"   said  Mrs.   Wilson   sighing,   "that  poor 


ONE  LITTLE  COMPANY  25 

Arthur  Garret  has  been  killed  in  action.  Frank  Gar- 
ret's cousin,  you  know." 

"Yes.    Frank  Garret  comes  in  for  a  lot  of  money." 

"It  seems  a  shame  somehow  .  .  .  him  safe  at  home 
and  that  poor  young  fellow " 

"Oh,  you  can't  blame  anybody.  Things  happen 
like  that,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson.  "But  it  does  seem 
hard.  The  one  who  died  was  so  handsome  and  clever 
and  well-off;  he  seemed  to  have  everything  to  lose." 

"Yes." 

Click!  Click!  went  the  needles,  and  underneath 
surged  a  rebellious  protest  in  each  woman's  heart — 
"How  can  God  let  it  go  on?"  But  they  said  nothing. 

Then  Miss  Felling  remarked. 

"So  Frank  Garret  will  be  quite  a  rich  man  now?" 
And  as  she  spoke  she  glanced  aside  at  Barbara,  who 
could  not  keep  the  red  flush  out  of  her  cheeks  and 
replied  hastily  to  cover  her  nervousness:  "He'll  like 
that,  he  has  always  hated  being  poor." 

"Poor!    With  a  motor-car!"  jeered  Elsie. 

"Blanche  is  to  have  a  Rolls-Royce  for  her  own  pri- 
vate use  immediately  petrol  is  procurable,"  said  Mrs. 
Bellerby  snatching  her  chance.  "It  is  to  be  a  present 
from  the  mother  of  the  bridegroom.  Mrs.  Elliott 
can't  heap  enough  on  Blanche  for  making  the  dear 
boy  so  happy.  But  my  girls  have  been  carefully 
brought  up.  They  are  so  simple,  as  dear  Hugh  Elliott 
says.  He  calls  Blanche  his  white  flower." 

"Then  I  think  she  might  have  the  grace  to  keep  it 
to  herself,"  said  Elsie.  "If  any  one  ever  calls  me  a 
white  flower " 

"They  never  will,  old  girl,"  interposed  Barbara 
laughing.  "More  like  a  sunflower."  She  glanced  out 


26  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

of  the  window  again.  "Oh,  here  is  your  maid  Gladys 
coming  across  the  street,  Miss  Felling.  She  is  carry- 
ing a  hamper." 

"Hamper!"  said  Miss  Felling.  "I'm  expecting  no 
hamper.  That  fool  is  always  making  mistakes.  What 
on  earth  has  she  done  now?" 

Barbara  flung  the  window  wide  and  called  out  to  the 
pale,  goggle-eyed  girl  on  the  path:  "What  is  it, 
Gladys?" 

But  Gladys  took  no  notice  whatever;  she  simply 
blundered  through  the  door  and  into  the  room,  dumped 
the  hamper  down  before  her  mistress  and  said: 
"There!  Now  my  responsibility  is  at  an  end!" 

"But  what  is  it?"  cried  Miss  Felling. 

"Just  what  I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl,  breathing 
hard  from  her  haste  and  the  weight  of  the  basket. 
"I  only  know  I  aren't  going  to  be  in  the  house  alone 
with  it.  It's  heavy.  It  made  a  noise  inside.  It  may 
have  something  to  do  with  Germans  for  all  we  can  tell. 
That  old  mat-mender  had  a  queer  look  to  me,  though 
you  said  he  was  all  right  and  let  him  sit  in  the  hall  to 
mend  the  mat.  Very  likely  he  was  a  spy.  Anyway, 
somebody  brought  the  hamper  who  knew  you;  for 
there's  Miss  Felling  on  it,  as  plain  as  life." 

"Who  brought  it?"  asked  that  lady. 

"Nobody  brought  it,"  said  Gladys,  round-eyed  and 
solemn  faced.  "It  just  come.  Once  I  went  to  the 
door  and  it  wasn't  there  .  .  .  next  time  I  went  and 
it  was.  And  something  in  it  made  a  sort  of  noise." 

Mrs.  Wilson,  who  had  been  bending  over  the  lid, 
drew  hastily  back. 

"You — you  don't  mean  a  ticking  noise?" 

"N-no.     No,  I  shouldn't  call  it  a  tick  exactly." 


ONE  LITTLE  COMPANY  27 

"Suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson,  "that  we  take  it 
out  into  the  garden  to  open.  If  it  were  a  bomb  or 
anything.  .  .  ." 

They  bore  it  out  gingerly  along  the  passage  and 
placed  it  on  the  gravel  path.  Barbara  cut  the  string. 
Every  neck  was  craned  forward ;  every  back  leg  poised 
for  flight. 

"Why,  it's  only  clothes  from  the  wash!"  exclaimed 
Barbara. 

"Stop!  They're  not  my  clothes.  You  don't  know 
what's  underneath,"  cried  Miss  Felling. 

"There's  something  heavy  underneath,"  said  Bar- 
bara, shaking  the  basket. 

Then  a  sound  floated  out  through  the  white  muslin 
and  lace  upon  the  grey  Flodmouth  air.  It  was  a  sound 
so  familiar  and  yet  startling  that  the  little  Mrs.  Du 
Caine  turned  quite  pale,  rushed  up  to  the  basket  cry- 
ing out :  "Oh,  the  poor  lamb !  Oh !  It'll  be  smothered ! 
Oh,  what  a  wicked  shame!"  and  snatched  forth  a  fat 
baby  of  about  two  months  old  evidently  under  the 
influence  of  a  strong  dose  of  soothing  syrup.  She 
held  it  clutched  tight  while  she  glanced  round  at  the 
rest  as  if  defying  them  to  take  it  from  her. 

But  nobody  wanted  to.  They  only  gaped  at  her 
with  open  mouths  and  eyes  like  Gladys's  and  drew  in 
their  hind  legs.  This  was  not  a  bomb.  There  was  no 
need  to  run.  .  .  . 

It  was  Gladys  after  all  who  broke  the  spell. 

"Golly!"  she  breathed  out.  "I've  seen  'em  lay  it 
at  the  father's  door  in  the  pictures  .  .  .  did  last  week 
as  ever  was  .  .  .  but  never  at  the  mother's."  She 
stared  round,  bewildered.  "Only  Miss  Felling,  she 
isn't  the  mother  neither.  What  is  she?" 


28 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

And  this  question  so  thrillingly  pre-occupied  all  the 
rest  that  they  refrained  from  rebuke  and  only  leaned 
closer. 

"Nothing,"  said  Miss  Felling.  "I  know  nothing  of 
it.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"It's  incredible  that  any  Mother.  .  .  ."  began  Mrs. 
Wilson,  who  invariably  said  that  word  with  a  capital 
M,  and  spoke,  as  it  were,  for  all  maternity. 

"Oh!"  squealed  little  Mrs.  Du  Caine.  "Here's  a 
letter.  Here's  a  letter  pinned  to  its  frock !" 

Miss  Felling  stretched  out  her  hand,  glanced  at  the 
superscription  and  flushed  crimson  with  surprise. 
"Lillie's  handwriting !"  Then,  tearing  the  letter  open, 
she  read  it  through,  her  face  undergoing  violent  and 
unnatural  changes  like- the  star  face  in  a  cinema. 

"So,"  she  gasped  at  last,  looking  up  from  her  letter 
in  a  sort  of  desperation,  "so  this  is  the  sort  of  world 
we  live  in  now,  is  it?"  She  paused  a  moment,  then 
broke  forth  still  more  wildly:  "It's  not  a  world.  It's 
a  bear  garden  ...  a  bear  garden  balancing  on  an 
earthquake.  Listen  to  this.  .  .  ."  and  she  began  to 
read  aloud  in  a  trembling  voice — 

"DEAR  Miss  FELLING, 

"When  I  left  to  be  married,  you  said  if  there 
was  anything  in  the  world  you  could  do  for  me,  you 
would.  I  regret  to  have  to  inform  you  that  my  mar- 
riage turned  out  a  bigamy  through  no  fault  of  mine, 
but  owing  to  him  having  another  wife  elsewhere. 
But  he  is  dead  and  gone  at  the  Front  now,  and  I  bear 
no  malice,  poor  fellow,  for  it  was  a  lark  while  it  lasted. 
Only  I  have  to  find  a  good  home  for  baby  until  I  get 


ONE  LITTLE  COMPANY  29 

a  place  which  can  support  him  properly.     I  will  then 
send  address. 

"I  would  have  called  in  person,  but  did  not  care  to 
come  in  contact  with  your  new  girl  under  the  circum- 
stances, nor  yet  with  people  in  the  street  as  I  used 
to  be  friendly  with,  though  I  have  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of.  It  was  not  me  that  did  the  bigamy,  of 
course. 

"I  know  you  are  not  much  of  a  one  for  babies,  but 
I  know  I  can  trust  you  to  treat  my  boy  right. — Thank- 
ing you  in  anticipation,  yours  sincerely, — 

"LILLIE  NELSON  (for  a  short  time  Brooke). 

"P.  S. — I  don't  hold  with  soothing  syrup.  I  only 
gave  it  this  once  as  a  convenience." 

"Well!"  gasped  the  listeners.  "Did  you  ever!  Oh, 
what  are  things  coming  to?" 

"How  horribly  unprincipled!"  added  Mrs.  Bellerby, 
over  emphasizing  her  "h's"  lest  she  should  lose  them, 
as  she  did  when  they  came  in  difficult  places. 

"How  odd  that  we  should  have  been  speaking  of 
Lillie.  But  things  constantly  happen  so,"  said  Mrs. 
Wilson. 

"How  could  she?"  said  Barbara,  crooning  over  the 
unconscious  intruder  in  Mrs.  Du  Caine's  arms.  "The 
lamb — the  little  sweet " 

"Of  course,"  pronounced  Mrs.  Wilson  with  finality, 
"you  will  send  the  child  to  a  Home,  Miss  Felling.  A 
mother  finds  the  bringing  up  of  a  baby  a  trying  and 
difficult  task.  You  could  not  possibly  manage." 

Now  this  had  also  been  Miss  Felling's  idea,  but  Mrs. 
Wilson's  tone  instantly  stirred  up  a  feeling  of  oppo- 
sition. A  spinster  was  not  necessarily  a  born  fool. 


30 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"I  don't  know  yet  what  I  shall  do,"  she  said.  "I 
shall  in  any  case  keep  the  child  for  the  night  and  sleep 
on  this  matter."  Then  she  looked  sharply  into  the 
corner  whence  an  unmistakable  giggle  had  proceeded : 
"Well,  Gladys,  what  is  it  now?" 

"On'y  .  .  .  on'y  you  talking  about  sleeping — with 
a  fresh  baby  in  the  house  that's  been  asleep  all  day. 
You  don't  know." 

"Then  I  shall  have  to  borrow  the  benefit  of  your 
experience,"  said  Miss  Felling,  controlling  herself,  for 
after  all  she  was  dependent  on  Gladys  in  this  crisis. 
"Do  you  know  anything  about  babies?" 

"I  do,"  said  Gladys  simply.  "I'm  one  of  nine.  I 
hate  'em." 

"Never  mind,"  interposed  Mrs.  Simpson  hastily, 
"the  poor  little  mite  is  very  welcome  to  stay  the  night 
here.  Anyway,  his  father  died  in  France  for  us." 

Mrs.  Simpson  was  rather  a  silent  woman,  and  her 
presence  was  not  much  noticed  in  a  room ;  only  people 
knew  when  she  went  that  the  place  was  less  full  of 
warmth  and  kindness. 

Perhaps  Gladys  may  have  become  conscious  of  this 
moral  sunshine,  for  she  stepped  forward  then  and  said 
good-naturedly;  "I  shouldn't  behave  badly  to  the 
bairn,  if  that's  what  you  think.  And  if  Miss  Felling 
wants  him  looked  after  for  a  day  or  two,  I'll  do  it.  I 
should  be  ashamed  not  to,  when  he's  a  soldier's  baby 
that's  been  killed."  And  with  that  she  took  the  cry- 
ing child  from  Mrs.  Du  Caine  with  an  accustomed 
arm  which  reassured  even  that  anxious  little  mother. 

"How  funny!"  said  Barbara,  touching  the  soft  lit- 
tle fingers.  "We  don't  even  know  his  name." 

"We  shall  have  to  have  him  christened  if  he  stops 


ONE  LITTLE  COMPANY  31 

long  enough ;  but  perhaps  he  has  been  already.  Never 
mind,  twice  will  only  make  him  twice  as  holy,"  said 
Elsie,  staring  at  the  baby  out  of  her  great,  dark  eyes. 
"I  know.  Let's  call  him  Kitchener.  That'll  give  him 
such  a  good  start." 

"A  little  disrespectful  to  the  dead,  don't  you  think  ?" 
said  Mrs.  Bellerby.  "I  always  fancy " 

Then  across  Mrs.  Bellerby's  refined,  tentative  ac- 
cents came  Gladys's  broad-toned,  indignant:  "Who's 
dead  ?  Not  Kitchener !  He's  as  alive  as  you  or  me." 

"Gladys!"  said  Miss  Felling. 

"I  don't  care.  He  is.  A  sergeant  I  walked  out 
with  told  me  so.  All  the  soldiers  know  it.  You  bet, 
the  Germans  weren't  going  to  get  Kitchener,"  said 
Gladys. 

"But  he  was  drowned,  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Simp- 
son gently. 

"Who  saw  him  drowned?"  demanded  Gladys 
through  the  baby's  crying.  "No.  Kitchener's  alive 
right  enough.  It'll  all  come  out  after  the  war,  you'll 
see."  She  paused,  snatched  up  a  bottle  from  the  bas- 
ket, exclaiming  abruptly:  "The  poor  kid's  hungry," 
and  was  away  across  the  road  as  suddenly  as  she  had 
come. 

To  the  women  left  behind  the  Flodmouth  noises 
floated  in  through  the  window  just  as  usual;  but 
there  was  really  a  sound  of  beating  wings  ...  of 
pipes  playing  across  untrodden  spaces  .  .  .  for  they 
had  just  been  present  at  that  strange  and  wonderful 
thing,  the  birth  of  a  legend.  So  arose  the  great  myths 
of  the  past,  and  so,  but  for  counter  influences,  would 
the  clouds  of  the  demi-gods  gather  round  the  figure  of 
Kitchener  to-day.  In  the  hearts  of  the  "common  peo- 


32  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

pie"  where  all  legends  are  conceived  this  one  had  al- 
ready grown  strong. 

Mrs.  Bellerby,  however,  was  fully  occupied  with 
the  business  of  the  moment,  and  she  said  to  Miss  Pell- 
ing,  genuinely  anxious  to  guard  her  neighbour  from  a 
serious  mistake :  "You  really  ought  not  to  encourage 
such  conduct  as  Lillie's.  She  has  behaved  with  brazen- 
faced effrontery." 

So  Miss  Felling  also  thought,  but  again  her  imper- 
fect nature  jibbed  at  guidance. 

"Lillie  may  be  brazen  and  irresponsible,  as  you  say, 
but  after  all,  she  has  had  a  child.  She's  better  than 
those  war-brides  who  are  simply  out  for  a  lark. 
Wives!  I  call  'em  Week-Enders:  that's  what  I  call 
'em."  And  she  unconsciously  fixed  such  a  stern  eye 
on  Mrs.  Du  Caine  that  the  poor  little  lady  faltered 
out  with  a  nervous  giggle :  "I've  had  two  in  two  years. 
You  can't  want  more  than  that,  can  you?" 

And  very  soon  they  all  rolled  up  their  knitting,  say- 
ing on  the  way  home  how  dreadfully  spoilt  that  Elsie 
Simpson  was,  and  how  silly  Miss  Felling  had  always 
been  about  her  old  servant,  and  how  much  older  Bar- 
bara looked  with  nursing.  But  even  as  they  spoke 
they  were  planning  in  their  minds  what  they  could 
send  or  do  to  help  Miss  Felling;  for  now-a-days  in 
the  Avenue  kindness  is  very  near  the  surface,  ready 
at  any  moment  to  well  up  and  cover  any  bitter  words 
with  a  flood  of  kind  deeds. 

Thus,  gradually,  the  slow  twilight  fell  on  Chestnut 
Avenue.  After  supper  the  Simpsons  sat  reading  by 
the  fire — for  it  is  cold  in  the  spring  in  Flodmouth — 
and  Barbara  had  just  glanced  at  the  clock,  saying  it 


ONE  LITTLE  COMPANY  33 

was  time  for  bed,  when  a  new  sound  and  terrible 
mingled  with  the  accustomed  Flodmouth  noises;  the 
sound  which  tells  that  death  is  hovering  over  a  multi- 
tude of  unarmed  and  innocent  people.  Before  the 
warning  buzzer  had  ceased,  Mr.  Simpson  was  strug- 
gling into  his  overcoat  and  fixing  on  his  special  con- 
stable's badge. 

"Good-night!"  he  said.  "Expect  me  when  you  see 
me." 

But  as  he  turned  to  speak  hastily  over  his  shoulder, 
he  noticed  the  ghastly  pallor  of  his  wife's  face.  She 
was  not  actually  afraid  of  death,  but  the  sudden  sound 
of  the  buzzer  had  startled  her  and  upset  her  weak 
heart,  and  she  only  kept  herself  from  fainting  by  force 
of  sheer  will ;  her  heart  pounded  against  her  ribs,  then 
seemed  to  cease,  then  pounded  on  again. 

"I'm  not  afraid.  You  musn't  think  I'm  afraid,"  she 
murmured  with  blue  lips,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"Your  mother's  ill,  girls.  Look  after  her,"  said 
Mr.  Simpson  and  he  had  to  run  out  of  the  house. 

But  as  he  trotted  down  the  avenue  his  forehead  was 
dark  red.  He  had  never  hated  the  Germans  when  Jim 
was  killed,  or  when  his  business  was  ruined,  but  now 
the  Evil  Thing  which  has  settled  itself  in  the  centre 
of  the  German  nation  and  lies  there  spawning  by  the 
million  had  cast  one  of  its  filthy  offspring  into  Mr. 
Simpson's  clean  and  decent  soul.  He  trembled  with 
hate  as  he  hurried  along  to  meet  Mr.  Binny. 

"We'll  stick  it  out  if  we  starve.  We'll  stick  it  out 
if  we  die  in  heaps.  We  must  beat  'em.  We  must 
beat  'em,"  he  muttered,  trotting  along  with  his  jolly, 
round  face  that  was  meant  to  be  so  kind  all  con- 
gested, and  his  eyes  glaring  through  his  spectacles. 


34  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

Then  he  looked  up  and  stood  still.  The  faint,  red 
glare  which  is  usually  over  a  city  after  dark  had  given 
place  to  a  pageant  such  as  Mr.  Simpson  had  never  seen 
before.  Great  searchlights  swept  across  the  deep  blue 
plain  of  the  sky  where  all  the  stars  were  shining  bright, 
below  lay  the  darkened  streets,  and,  among  the  stars, 
as  it  seemed,  was  a  pale-golden  thing  like  a  pencil 
that  the  god  of  battles  had  cast  down  after  signing 
the  doom  of  the  world.  Just  so  it  looked,  hovering 
over  Flodmouth,  with  the  splendour  of  all  the  search- 
lights turned  upon  it. 

He  stared  up,  rooted  to  the  ground,  and  the  zeppelin 
seemed  to  waver  uncertainly,  as  if  the  men  steering  it 
were  blinded  by  the  swords  of  light.  Then  it  began 
to  sail  away,  growing  less  and  less  against  the  wonder- 
ful blue  and  silver  of  the  night.  Mr.  Simpson  heard 
a  great  shout  go  up — the  shout  of  deliverance,  and  he 
began  to  run  again,  waving  his  cap,  with  his  bald  head 
exposed  to  the  night  breeze. 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  he 
and  Mr.  Binny  came  off  duty.  They  tramped  wearily, 
Mr.  Binny,  tall  and  lean,  bending  towards  his  short, 
stout  companion.  But  the  excitement  of  the  hours 
just  past  kept  them  alert  in  spite  of  their  fatigue,  and 
they  were  even  more  ardent  than  usual  in  the  pursuit 
of  lighted  windows.  They  scanned  with  a  keen  eye, 
as  they  conversed,  the  houses  on  either  side  of  the 
Avenue. 

"I  had  a  good  deal  of  bother  with  Miss  Felling 
last  week,"  observed  Mr.  Simpson.  "She  is  tiresome 
about  her  lights.  Bless  me!  There  she  is  again!" 


ONE  LITTLE  COMPANY  35 

And  he  pointed  to  a  wavering  streak  on  the  opposite 
railings. 

"That's  her  bedroom;  she'll  have  the  baby  in  there 
because  of  the  gas-stove,"  said  Mr.  Binny;  but  the 
most  censorious  could  have  thought  no  evil  of  this 
intimate  information  had  they  seen  his  peering,  anxious 
face.  "I  don't  like' knocking  her  up  under  the  circum- 
stances," he  concluded  uneasily. 

"Then  we  won't  do  it,"  said  Mr.  Simpson.  "Let  it 
pass." 

"No!"  said  Mr.  Binny,  setting  his  mouth.  "After 
all,  right  is  right.  My  duty  as  a  special  constable  of 
Flodmouth  comes  before  any  feelings  of — er — esteem 
for  Miss  Felling.  But  it  is  all  very  unpleasant." 

Mr.  Simpson  rammed  his  hands  deep  into  his  coat 
pockets. 

"Binny,"  he  said,  "people  seem  to  think  we  like 
wandering  about  half  the  night  looking  after  lights 
and  getting  only  abuse  for  it.  It's  a  beastly  job.  I 
detest  it !" 

"So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Binny.  "But  when  you  think 
of  our  soldiers " 

"I  do  think,"  retorted  Mr.  Simpson.  "Otherwise 
I  shouldn't  go  on  at  this  game,  I  can  tell  you."  So 
saying  he  marched  up  Miss  Felling's  garden  path  and 
pressed  the  electric  bell. 

There  was  no  response.  It  was  cold  and  dismal  in 
the  quiet  streets.  With  reluctance  Mr.  Binny  left  his 
ambush  at  the  gate  and  joined  his  comrade  on  the 
top  of  the  steps. 

"You  shout,"  he  urged.  "I'd  rather  she  didn't  hear 
my  voice — next-door  neighbours  and  so  on '* 


36 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Well,  she's  very  friendly  with  my  family  for  that 
matter,"  said  Mr.  Simpson  rather  testily. 

"So  she  is.  So  she  is.  Well,  duty  conies  first,  of 
course."  He  sighed  deeply.  "Let's  shout  together." 

The  two  gentlemen  therefore  paused  a  moment,  then 
lifted  up  their  voices  in  unison — 

"Put  out  that  light!" 

Still  no  response,  though  the  empty  street  echoed 
and  heads  began  to  peer  from  upper  windows  all  along 
the  Avenue. 

At  this  the  blood  of  Mr.  Simpson  and  Mr.  Binny, 
already  a  little  heated  by  past  events,  began  to  be 
definitely  up.  "If  she  doesn't  come,  I'll  hammer  the 
door  down,"  said  Mr.  Simpson  between  clenched  teeth. 

"Wait!  I'll  use  my  stick,"  said  Mr.  Binny;  and 
with  a  very  fierce  expression  indeed,  he  poised  his 
heavy  walking-stick  for  a  blow;  when  suddenly,  from 
within,  the  door  burst  open,  and  the  stick  fell  with  an 
unpleasant  "Thud!"  on  something  soft.  A  second 
later  Mr.  Simpson,  Mr.  Binny  and  Miss  Felling  were 
in  a  confused  heap  among  the  grimy  daffodils  at  the 
bottom  of  the  steps. 

For  one  brief  and  horrible  moment  Mr.  Binny 
believed  that  he  had  committed  murder,  and  Mr. 
Simpson  that  he  had  been  accessory  to  the  deed. 

Then  Miss  Felling  stirred  and  said  feebly — 

"If  I  hadn't  happened  to  have  a  Teddy  Bear  in  my 
arms  I  believe  you  would  have  killed  me.  I  was  taking 
it  up  to  amuse  him  in  case  he  awakened  again.  Oh, 
dear!  Oh,  dear!" 

After  a  dazed  moment  or  two  Mr.  Simpson  and 
Mr.  Binny  began  a  very  little  to  recover  themselves, 
and  at  the  back  of  Mr.  Simpson's  brain  the  folly  of 


ONE  LITTLE  COMPANY  37 

trying  to  beguile  a  baby  of  two  months  with  a  Teddy 
Bear  became  dimly  apparent.  It  was  just  like  her — • 
he  vaguely  felt — for  he  was  not  an  admirer  of  Miss 
Felling :  then  he  sat  up,  and  common  humanity  caused 
him  to  grab  hold  of  the  lady  in  the  darkness.  As  soon 
as  he  found  breath  to  articulate,  he  stammered  out: 
"I  hope  nothing  is  broken." 

"No.  Unless  perhaps  the  Teddy  Bear's  squeaker. 
It  made  a  most  extraordinary  sound,"  faltered  Miss 
Felling,  also  sitting  up  among  the  crushed  daffodils. 

Mr.  Binny  on  the  other  side,  being  more  over- 
whelmed, took  more  time  to  recover  himself.  But  at 
last  he  too  sat  up  and  touched  Miss  Felling's  dressing- 
gown  with  a  gingerly  right  hand.  "I — I  sincerely 
trust  you  are  not  seriously  hurt?  May  I  assist  you 
to  rise?"  he  said  shakily. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Miss  Felling;  and  she  con- 
cluded defiantly :  "I'm  not  going  to  put  out  that  light 
for  anybody." 

Which  proved  once  more  how  slight  was  her  knowl- 
edge of  the  male  sex;  for  Mr.  Simpson  and  Mr.  Binny 
had  been  ready  to  overlook  a  display  of  fireworks  on 
her  part  if  she  had  said  nothing  about  them.  Now 
they  were  on  their  mettle  again. 

"I'm  sorry;  but  we  must  insist,"  said  Mr.  Simpson, 
still  panting  slightly.  "The  safety  of  the  city " 

"I'll  die  before  I  have  that  child  waked  up  again," 
interrupted  Miss  Felling,  rising  unsteadily. 

"Only "  began  Mr.  Simpson,  but  even  in  his 

intense  irritation  he  swallowed  the  words  "only  pity," 
and  substituted  "Only  difficulty  is,  you  wouldn't  die 
alone.  And  you  must  consider  the  safety  of  your 
neighbours." 


38  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"We  are  really  obliged  .  .  ."  added  Mr.  Binny,  thus 
embarrassingly  placed  between  gallantry  and  duty. 

Both  comrades,  however,  were  equally  unprepared 
for  the  sudden  retreat  up  the  steps  which  left  them 
planted  there,  and  they  stood  blankly  listening  as 
Miss  Felling  called  through  a  crack  of  the  door:  "I 
don't  care!  I  don't  care!  If  I  put  the  light  out,  he'll 
wake  up.  He  did  before.  You  may  take  me  to  prison 
if  you  like,  but  I  won't  wake  that  child  up  now  he's 
once  off,  not  for  every  Special  Constable  in  England !" 

The  door  shut  Mr.  Simpson  and  Mr.  Binny  were 
left  outside.  They  were  conscious  of  several  di- 
shevelled heads  peering  through  the  darkness  at  them 
from  windows  round  about,  though  nothing  could  be 
seen.  They  turned  to  each  other,  asking  mutely  what 
was  to  be  done  next  "After  all,"  said  Mr.  Binny, 
"she  made  nothing  of  an  exceedingly  unpleasant  fall. 
Many  women  would  have  been  in  hysterics." 

"Yes:  and  I  think  there's  no  further  danger  to  be 
anticipated  to-night,"  said  Mr.  Simpson. 

With  one  consent  they  turned  away,  walked  down 
the  path  and  out  of  the  gate,  which  they  closed  very 
softly,  as  if  with  an  instinctive  desire  to  conceal  even 
from  themselves  the  fact  that  they  had  gone. 

"Come  in  for  a  moment  and  have  a  drop  of  whisky," 
said  Mr.  Binny,  opening  the  next  gate.  "I  expect  you 
feel  a  bit  shaken,  and  your  people  are  in  bed." 

"Well,  I'm  not  taking  any  during  the  war,  but  on 

this  occasion "  murmured  Mr.  Simpson,  feeling 

his  bruises. 

So  a  few  minutes  later  they  sat  on  either  side  of  the 
fire  which  Mr.  Binny's  capable  housekeeper  had  left 
banked  up,  each  with  a  glass  of  pale  yellow  liquid  in 


ONE  LITTLE  COMPANY  39 

his  right  hand  and  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  They  were 
both  middle-aged  men — Mr.  Binny  much  overworked 
during  the  day — and  they  had  both  been  doing  gratui- 
tous labour  for  which  no  one  praised  and  many  people 
abused  them.  But  at  the  present  moment  life  took 
on  a  comparatively  rosy  hue.  For  Mr.  Simpson  was; 
abstemious  at  all  times  and  had  been  a  teetotaller  for 
a  year,  and  he  became  conscious  of  a  pleasant  glow 
creeping  through  his  veins  and  of  a  deeper  friendship 
for  Mr.  Binny  than  he  had  hitherto  experienced ;  while' 
Mr.  Binny  had  observed  much  the  same  discipline  since: 
the  first  year  of  the  war,  and  he,  too,  excited  by  the 
events  of  the  evening  and  upset  in  two  senses  by  the 
encounter  with  Miss  Felling,  was  feeling  very  confi- 
dentially disposed  towards  Mr.  Simpson.  It  was  alto- 
gether one  of  those  hours  in  which  the  carefully 
guarded  reticence  of  a  lifetime  may  be  broken  through, 
to  the  amazement  of  both  parties  next  morning. 

"Simpson,"  said  Mr.  Binny,  his  long  angular  limbs 
easily  disposed  in  a  chair  especially  made  for  them, 
"you  would  almost  wonder  that  Miss  Felling  had 
never  married.  She  is  a  very  uncommon  woman." 

"Oh,  very,"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  at  peace  with  all 
mankind. 

But  this  was  not  enough  for  Mr.  Binny.  He  lowered 
his  voice. 

"Good-looking  too,  but  for  .  .  ."  delicacy  somehow 
forbade  words,  and  he  touched  his  nose  with  his  pipe 
stem. 

"Yes.  Pity  that :  been  so  ever  since  I  can  remember 
her." 

Puff !  Puff !  went  the  pipes.    Each  took  another  sip. 


40 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"I  sometimes  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Binny,  "if  all  that 
one  hears  about  married  life  is  true." 

Mr.  Simpson  started  a  little.  He  was  very  sleepy 
and  had  begun  to  nod  in  his  chair.  "Eh !  Oh,  depends 
what  you've  heard,"  he  said,  rousing  himself  to  take 
a  proper  interest  in  his  host's  conversation. 

"Well!"  Mr.  Binny  flushed  slightly,  took  another 
sip  and  said  with  assumed  carelessness:  "I've  heard 
that  when  a  man  has  been  married  six  months  he 
doesn't  notice  in  the  least  what  his  wife  looks  like.  All 
the  same  whether  she's  beautiful,  or  as  plain  as  a 
pikestaff." 

"Um,"  Mr.  Simpson  meditated  rather  hazily.  "I 
.should  say  it's  this  way;  you  don't  notice  if  she  looks 
all  right  but  you  do  if  she  doesn't." 

"Anything  queer  about  her,  you  mean  ?" 
.     "Yes." 

They  smoked  again  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence.  It 
was  most  comfortable  after  the  bleak  night  outside. 
Then  Mr.  Binny  started  again. 

"I  have  known  Miss  Felling  a  very  long  time." 

"Oh,  yes.  Excellent  woman!  Puff,  Puff!"  went 
Mr.  Simpson. 

"Simpson,"  said  Mr.  Binny,  leaning  forward  with 
such  sudden  intensity  that  Mr.  Simpson  also  sat  up 
straight  with  a  jerk  and  became  almost  wide  awake. 
"I  have  had  it  in  my  mind  to  propose  to  her  since  I 
was  thirty  and  she  about  twenty-seven.  She  has  a 
delightful  way  of  talking.  Ever  so  many  times  in 
the  dark  when  we  have  talked  over  the  garden  wall  I 
have  nearly  done  it." 

"Why  didn't  you  then?"  said  Mr.  Simpson. 

But  Mr.  Binny  did  not  answer  that  question  directly* 


ONE  LITTLE  COMPANY  41 

He  took  another  sip  and  craned  his  long  neck  still 
further  across  the  hearth  towards  his  friend. 

"Simpson,"  he  said,  "you  are  the  first  person  I 
have  ever  talked  to  like  this.  But  as  one  man  to 
another  .  .  .  is  it  necessary  to  kiss  your  wife  every 
day  when  you  are  both  middle-aged,  or  would  just 
occasionally  do  ?" 

"Sure  I  don't  know,"  grunted  Mr.  Simpson,  non- 
committal. "Different  people,  different  ways,  I 
expect." 

"You're  naturally  surprised  at  such  a  question," 
said  Mr.  Binny  hastily,  more  alert  than  Mr.  Simpson 
had  ever  seen  him.  "But  I  don't  know  any  one  else 
with  whom  I  could  discuss.  .  .  .  And  it  would  be  so 
terrible  if  I  got  her  and  then  I  really  couldn't.  .  .  ." 
He  paused.  "Simpson,  it  seems  a  cruel  thing  to  say, 
but  I  love  that  woman  and  yet  I  couldn't  kiss  her. 
I  simply  can't  get  over  her  nose."  He  paused  again, 
then  broke  forth :  "I  know  it  sounds  awful.  I  know 
a  woman  could  take  a  man  having  a  far  worse  physical 
defect  than  that  without  minding  a  bit.  How  is  it?" 

Mr.  Simpson  flogged  his  quiescent  mind  into  activity. 
He  wanted  to  console  Binny.  Binny  was  a  good  chap. 

"I  know,"  he  said  at  last.  "Women  have  been 
obliged  to  marry  men  they  didn't  want  to  for  ages, 
but  men  have  been  freer  to  choose.  They  have  kept 
more  of  their  instinct  for  natural  selection — that's  why 
you  can't  stand  Miss  Felling's  nose.  You're  instinc- 
tively avoiding  a  future  generation  with  the  same 
noses." 

"Ah!  Where  did  you  read  that?"  said  Mr.  Binny 
doubtfully.  He  rose  and  offered  to  fill  up  his  friend's 
glass.  "Well,  there  it  is,  Simpson.  I  like  her  better 


42 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

than  any  other  woman,  and  yet  I  can't  ask  her  to  marry 
me.  And  now  we're  both  getting  old." 

Mr.  Simpson  shook  his  head,  declining  more  whisky, 
and  made  a  sympathetic  noise  in  his  throat.  As  he 
rose  he  again  sought  words  of  consolation. 

"Never  mind,  Binny,"  he  said,  glancing  at  the  deep 
arm-chair.  "Anyway,  a  bachelor  can  go  to  bed  just 
what  time  he  likes  and  knock  his  pipe  out  on  the 
mantelpiece."  He  paused  and  strove  for  a  final  con- 
solation. "Perhaps  she  wouldn't  have  you  now,"  he 
concluded  helpfully. 

"No.  No.  Most  probably  not,"  agreed  Mr.  Binny 
at  once,  but  he  rubbed  his  chin  and  seemed  imperfectly 
comforted. 

Then  the  two  friends  went  to  the  front  door. 

"I  can  rely  on  your  discretion,  of  course,"  remarked 
the  host,  already,  as  the  chill  air  blew  in  upon  him, 
beginning  to  wonder  at  his  own  expansiveness.  "Per- 
haps I  exaggerated  in  what  I  said  to  you  about  Miss 
Felling.  A  bachelor  naturally  speculates  on  such  sub- 
jects sometimes  without  meaning  anything.  Good- 
night." 

"Good-night,"  said  Mr.  Simpson. 

As  he  trudged  across  the  road  a  chill  dawn  wind 
was  already  blowing  up  from  the  river  Flod.  Little 
Kitchener  had  awakened,  and  his  long  wail  echoed 
the  O-oh!  of  the  engine  whistle  at  the  end  of  the 
Avenue.  Mr.  Simpson  thought  what  a  queer  world 
this  was,  as  he  inserted  his  latch-key  into  the  lock  of 
his  own  front  door. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  DAY  IN  THE  AVENUE 

EVEN  before  Mr.  Simpson  fell  asleep,  country 
wagons  were  jolting  past  the  street  end;  work- 
men's cars  started  running;  the  first  milk-cart  rattled 
up  the  Avenue;  trains  came  faster  and  faster  on  the 
other  side  of  the  blank"  wall.  .  .  .  All  the  great  orches- 
tra of  Flodmouth  was  in  full  swing  again,  after  that 
strange  moment  on  the  preceding  night  when  Death 
hovered  among  the  searchlights  over  the  city. 

Mr.  Simpson  came  down  to  breakfast  rather  late, 
and  he  could  see,  as  he  descended  the  stairs,  that  the 
front  door  was  open  and  the  bright,  cool  morning  air 
was  stirring  Barbara's  cotton  frock  in  the  passage. 
Through  the  doorway  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  those 
remaining  daffodils  upon  which  Miss  Felling  and  party 
had  not  sat,  and  the  Bellerby  girls  were  just  going 
past  to  help  at  a  Flag  Day,  with  light  dresses  all 
a-flutter  and  slim  ankles  twinkling  as  they  hurried 
along. 

Mr.  Simpson  was  filled  with  a  sudden  triumph  and 
exultation.  He  was  alive  and  well  on  this  glorious 
morning.  Amid  the  carnage  and  suffering  of  a  world, 
he  was  all  right! 

Then,  instantly,  he  had  a  pricking  sense  of  shame. 
He  snatched  up  the  paper  and  forced  his  mind  to 

43 


44 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

take  in  the  details  of  the  fighting  on  the  Western 
front. 

But  both  exultation  and  shame  were  wholly  uncon- 
scious. Mr.  Simpson  was  not  aware  he  had  indulged 
in  either  as  he  drank  his  tea  and  munched  his  toast, 
or  that  a  million  men  and  women  in  Europe  had 
experienced  the  same  on  that  jocund  morning. 

The  window  was  open  and  two  maidservants  stood 
outside  in  the  sunshine — Gladys  and  a  friend. 

"Heard  about  our  baby?     He!     He!"  said  Gladys. 

"Yes.  Rum  thing  a  baby  at  your  house.  He! 
He!"  and  they  giggled  together. 

"Well,"  continued  Gladys,  "it  won't  be  at  our 
house  long:  that's  one  blessing.  I  ain't  so  soft  as  I 
look." 

"Why,  what  did  you  do?     Give  in  your  notice?" 

"No.  I  didn't  do  nothing.  That's  just  it  "  Gladys 
paused.  "Not  that  I  would  have  let  the  poor  little 
bairn  cry  to  harm  itself,  of  course.  But  we  did  have 
a  night  of  it,  I  can  tell  you.  And  she  was  off  by  eight 
o'clock  this  morning  to  make  arrangements  with  Mrs. 
Hobby,  the  porter's  wife,  that  lost  her  baby  in  January. 
She's  paying  a  good  lot,  but  it'll  be  a  fine  thing  for  Mrs. 
Hobby,  and  she'd  ha'  pawned  her  petticoat,  I  do 
believe,  before  she'd  go  through  another  such  night.'"' 
She  paused  again.  "Not  that  I  should  have  minded 
giving  in  my  notice." 

"What  for?    Going  into  munitions?" 

"No,  I  can't;  I've  a  bad  chest."  She  paused  and 
brought  forth  vehemently:  "No,  it's  this  rationing 
business  I  can't  stick — weighing  and  watching  every 
mouthful  you  eat.  A  poor  girl  must  eat  if  she's  to  do 
her  work." 


A  DAY  IN  THE  AVENUE  45 

"Yes.  This  rationing's  only  another  name  for 
meanness.  It's  all  got  up  by  the  rich  to  do  the  poor 
folks  in  some  way." 

They  looked  up  and  down  the  street,  their  young 
faces  dull  and  suspicious  for  a  moment.  Then  they 
smiled  at  each  other. 

"Well,  so  long.  Glad  you've  got  rid  of  the  kid, 
though  I'm  sorry  for  it.  The  mother  must  be  a  rum 
'un." 

"It's  Miss  Felling's  Lillie.  Her  that  was  such  a 
pattern  of  a  servant,"  said  Gladys.  "They  think  I 
don't  know,  but  I  couldn't  help  hearing.  They  seem 
to  fancy  servants  hasn't  got  ears." 

"You're  right.  I'm  sick  of  being  a  servant.  Every- 
body looks  down  on  you  and  you've  no  freedom.  My 
youngest  sister  is  in  an  office,  and  look  at  her.  .  .  . 
"Well,  I  must  be  getting  on." 

They  parted. 

Mr.  Simpson  rose  from  the  table  as  the  postman 
passed  the  window,  and  went  out  to  receive  the  letters 
at  the  gate.  At  the  furthei  end  of  the  Avenue  stood 
little  Mrs.  Du  Caine,  with  one  baby  holding  her  hand 
and  the  other  in  her  arms.  Mrs.  Wilson  pretended 
to  weed  the  front  garden,  not  desiring  the  neigh- 
bours to  see  that  she  was  watching  openly.  It  was 
the  same  at  nearly  every  house  in  the  Avenue,  and 
in  every  street  in  Flodmouth.  You  could  almost 
hear,  among  the  chorus  of  city  noises,  the  faint 
thud!  thud!  of  women's  hearts  beating  as  they 
waited. 

But  in  the  Simpsons'  house  that  sort  of  waiting  was 
now  over;  and  Mr.  Simpson  took  his  batch  casually, 


46  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

delivering  a  letter  to  Barbara,  and  saying  as  he  went 
in:  "Here's  a  love-letter  for  you,  Barbara." 

"Don't  be  so  silly,  Father!  More  likely  a  bill," 
said  Barbara.  All  the  same,  she  flushed  as  she  looked 
at  the  handwriting,  and  slipped  the  letter  into  the 
pocket  of  her  overall. 

Some  time,  however,  had  to  elapse  before  she  opened 
it,  but  at  length  in  the  cool  solitude  of  the  bathroom 
when  she  was  polishing  brass  taps,  the  opportunity 
arrived,  and  she  sat  on  the  bath  edge  to  peruse  the 
following  epistle — 

"DEAR  Miss  BARBARA, 

I  am  so  very  glad  to  hear  you  have  come 
back.    If  I  can  possibly  get  away  I  will  call  early  this 
afternoon  on  the  chance  of  rinding  you  in.     It  seems 
such  ages  since  I  had  a  talk  with  you  alone. 
"Yours  very  sincerely, 

"FRANK  R.  GARRET." 

It  was  not  impassioned,  but  Barbara's  face,  bent  over 
it  in  the  diluted  light  which  fell  through  the  thick 
window,  was  awed  and  wide-eyed;  and  Elsie,  peering 
in  at  the  door  as  she  passed  silently  on  the  carpet 
outside,  was  moved  to  stand  still  and  call  out — 

"Goodness !  What  a  subject  for  a  Christmas  Annual 
Supplement,  entitled  'His  Letter/  or  'Shall  I;  or  shall 
I  not?'" 

Barbara  started  and  folded  up  the  letter. 

"Don't  be  an  idiot!"  she  said  sharply.  "I  do  wish 
you  would  mind  your  own  business.  It's  horrid,  the 
way  you  poke  and  pry  into  everything." 

Elsie  laughed  shrilly  but  good-naturedly. 


A  DAY  IN  THE  AVENUE  47 

"Come,  Barbie,"  she  said,  "don't  get  shirty  because 
I  interrupted  you  reading  a  note  from  Frank  Garret. 
I  only  saw  the  envelope,  but  I  know  just  what's  inside; 
tepid  pleasure  in  Miss  Barbara's  return  and  a  promise 
to  come  and  see  her  soon.  Bah!  /  could  show  him 
how!  He's  what  I  call  the  Cautious  Kipper,  and 
you're  the  Willing  Winkle."  She  laughed  once  more, 
then  added  in  a  different  tone:  "I  suppose  he  wants 
to  take  you  on  again  now  you  are  on  the  spot.  Don't 
do  it,  Barbie,  old  girl.  If  it  was  me  I'd  see  him  jolly 
hemmed  first." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Barbara.  "You 
read  far  too  many  novels  and  get  your  head  filled  with 
nonsense.  Please  go  and  get  your  milk;  it  is  eleven 
o'clock." 

But  though  Barbara  could  dismiss  her  sister  with 
dignity,  she  felt  even  less  disposed  than  before  to  tell 
the  household  that  Frank  Garret  might  be  coming  to 
call.  She  could  bear  the  suspense  of  that  waiting 
herself,  but  not  if  it  were  shared  by  a  jeering  Elsie  and 
a  mother  anxious  lest  she  should  be  hurt  or  disap- 
pointed. One  was  as  bad  as  the  other  in  her  present 
frame  of  mind,  and  she  worked  herself  up  into  a 
fever  of  expectation,  which  caused  her  literally  to  feel 
sick  by  the  time  she  had  successfully  manoeuvred 
Elsie  upstairs,  Mrs.  Simpson  on  to  the  back-room 
sofa,  and  Mr.  Simpson — unwillingly — into  the  back 
garden. 

At  last  she  stood  alone  by  the  kitchen  table,  ironing 
pocket  handkerchiefs.  The  house  was  very  still ;  Elsie 
lay  on  her  bed  resting  her  weak  back  and  devouring 
books  as  usual,  while  Mrs.  Simpson  had  fallen  asleep 
after  her  disturbed  night. 


48  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

Then  a  bell  sounded  faintly  in  the  kitchen  and 
Barbara  glanced  at  the  trembling  indicator  on  the  wall 
as  if  it  were  a  writing  of  Fate.  But  her  feet  seemed 
weighted  with  lead  as  she  softly  opened  the  kitchen 
door  and  went  down  the  passage.  She  wanted  to  see 
him  and  yet  she  wanted  to  run  away.  That  under- 
lined "alone"  seemed  to  be  alive  before  her.  Now  that 
the  moment  was  perhaps  coming,  of  which  she  had 
dreamed  with  such  shy  rapture  since  she  was  eighteen, 
she  felt  unable  to  face  it.  Her  eyes  were  dilated  and 
her  hand  shook  as  she  opened  the  door. 

"Oh!  Is  it  you?  Will  you  come  in?"  she  said 
nervously,  scarcely  looking  at  him. 

"You  got  my  letter  all  right,  then?"     . 

"Oh  yes." 

He  stood  smiling  at  her  from  his  great  height  with 
his  handsome  face  bent  towards  her  and  his  fine,  dark 
eyes  looking  into  her  blue  ones.  The  faint  lines  which 
the  vague  girlish  passions  he  had  roused  and  left 
unsatisfied  had  traced  round  her  fresh  mouth  were 
visible  in  the  early  afternoon  light.  He  had  a  moment's 
thought  that  she  had  "gone  off."  Then  she  flushed 
under  his  gaze  and  he  thought  her  prettier  than  he  had 
remembered. 

"Let  us  go  into  the  garden,"  he  said  with  sudden 
ardour.  "We  shall  be  by  ourselves  there.  I  want  to 
see  you  alone." 

She  glanced  at  him  hesitating. 

"If  you  really.  .  .  .  But  Father  is  in  the  garden." 

"Oh,  that  won't  do  then."  He  paused,  touching  her 
sleeve  and  smiling,  very  sure  of  himself.  "I  say, 
Barbara,  surely  there's  some  place  in  the  house  ?  .  .  . 
Think  a  bit." 


A  DAY  IN  THE  AVENUE  49 

She  looked  up  at  him,  her  eyes  asking  questions 
without  her  knowledge.  Was  it  true  what  Elsie  had 
said?  Or  perhaps  he  was  really  going  to  propose  to 
her  just  because  he  had  had  his  fling  and  wanted  to 
settle  down?  She  turned  slowly  away  from  the  door. 
"Well  .  .  .  I'm  in  the  kitchen  ironing  handkerchiefs. 
Only  it's  awfully  hot  in  there." 

He  closed  the  front  door  softly  and  pressed  her  arm 
as  they  went  down  the  passage.  She  withdrew  a  little 
and  he  pressed  nearer,  seeing  in  her  movement  the 
innocent  freshness  which  had  always  appealed  to  him 
in  her. 

"Hush!"  he  whispered,  more  for  the  sake  of  whis- 
pering into  her  pretty  ear  under  the  brown  wave  of 
shining  hair  than  anything  else.  "Tread  quietly, 
Barbara.  I  don't  want  them  to  hear." 

"They'll  only  think  you  are  Father's  collars  from 
the  wash,"  said  Barbara  soberly. 

She  was  still  in  that  odd  frame  of  mind.  The 
moment  towards  which  all  her  girl's  dreams  had 
tended  was  almost  here;  Frank  was  going  to  tell 
her  he  loved  her;  and  yet  she  did  not  feel  as  if  the 
heavens  were  opening.  Suddenly,  on  the  threshold 
of  the  kitchen,  she  turned  round.  "No.  Don't  let 
us  go  in  there.  It  is  too  hot.  We'll  go  into  the 
drawing-room." 

He  put  his  arm  tightly  round  her  and  said  rather 
breathlessly :  "If  you  won't  come  I'll  make  you.  Shall 
I?  Shall  I?" 

She  could  feel  his  breath  on  her  cheek. 

"I  can't  move  if  you  hold  me  like  that — let 
me  go." 

They  stood   facing  each  other  now  in  the  warm 


50 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

kitchen  with  the  door  closed.  He  put  his  arm  about 
her  again,  touching  her  elbow  gently. 

"Did  I  knock  it  against  the  door-post?  I  wouldn't 
hurt  you  for  the  world,  girlie." 

She  shook  her  head  without  speaking. 

"You  like  it,"  he  murmured  very  low.  "Whisper, 
Barbara;  did  you  like  it?" 

She  broke  away  from  him  again. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  I  don't  know!"  she  said,  half 
crying. 

"Silly  little  girl!  What  is  there  to  cry  about?"  he 
said.  "Come  here !"  He  caught  her  to  him  and  held 
her  fast,  looking  down  into  her  upturned  face.  Then 
he  suddenly  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her  passionately 
on  the  lips. 

"Oh!  let  me  go,"  she  murmured  faintly.  "I  don't 
like  it."  She  paused.  "I  hate  it!" 

"Sweetest,  you'll  get  over  that.  It's  because  I  am 
the  first.  I've  upset  you.  But  I  wouldn't  have  you 
otherwise  for  the  world,"  he  said. 

She  pushed  him  away  and  sat  down  by  the  ironing 
board,  leaning  her  forehead  on  her  hands. 

"No — no.  It's  not  that,  Frank.  I  don't  know  what 
it  is."  She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him  with 
dishevelled  hair  and  those  faint  lines  round  her  mouth 
deepened;  her  blue  eyes  were  black  with  the  intensity 
of  her  emotion.  She  had  the  air  of  some  distraught 
and  tragic  woman  who  sees  her  dearest  treasure 
putting  out  from  the  shore  and  is  powerless  to  utter 
the  word  that  would  hold  it  back.  "I  only  know  that 
if  I  really  loved  you,  I  shouldn't  have  to  get  used  to 
you  kissing  me.  I  should  like  it  now." 

"But,  Barbara — it  seems  a  caddish  thing  to  say — I 


A  DAY  IN  THE  AVENUE  51 

haven't  been  able  to  help  seeing  that  you  were  fond  of 
me.  You  can't  suddenly  stop,  after  all  these  years, 
just  because  I  kissed  you.  The  thing's  simply  not 
comprehensible." 

"I  know.  I  can't  understand  it  myself,"  said 
Barbara  hopelessly.  Then  with  a  sudden  onrush  of 
feeling  she  realised  with  him  the  utter  incomprehensi- 
bility of  this  end  to  the  dreams  of  her  young  girlhood. 
"If  any  one  had  told  me.  .  .  ." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  don't  care  for  me 
after  all?"  exclaimed  Garret.  "Then  all  I  can  say  is, 
I  think  you  have  behaved  disgracefully.  You  always 
led  me  to  suppose  you  cared  for  me." 

"I  did.    I  am  sure  I  did,"  said  Barbara. 

"Then  what  earthly  reason " 

"I  haven't  one." 

He  began  to  walk  agitatedly  up  and  down  the 
kitchen. 

"I  suppose  you  have  heard  about  my  cousin's 
money?  I  am  now  very  well  off,  and  in  a  position  to 
marry  at  last.  And  the  moment  I  am  in  that  position, 
I  come  to  you.  I  couldn't  do  more.  No  man  could. 
I  can  offer  you  everything  that  my  wife  ought  to 
have." 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Barbara,  leaning  once  more  on 
her  hands.  "Oh!  it's  dreadful!  It's  dreadful!  But 
I  don't  want  you.  I  can't  marry  you." 

"I  have  a  right  to  some  explanation — after  all  these 
years." 

"I  know  you  have."  She  groped  desperately  for 
words  in  which  to  express  herself.  He  had  a  right  to 
that  knowledge  floating  vaguely  in  the  back  of  her 
mind  if  she  could  only  get  hold  of  it. 


52 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Then  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  never  have  cared 
for  me  ?"  he  demanded. 

"No.  I  couldn't  say  such  a  thing.  I  fell  in  love 
with  you  at  my  first  dance  and  I've  never  cared  for 
another  man  since.  But  now  .  .  ."  She  paused, 
still  groping.  "I  believe  I  must  have  waited  too 
long.  .  .  ."  She  paused  again:  "Oh,  Frank!  You 
don't  know  what  it  is  for  a  girl,  having  to  hide 
everything  up  from  everybody,  and  so  ashamed 
of  being  the  one  to  care  most — no  man  ever  can 
know." 

"So  that's  it!"  He  drew  a  breath  of  relief  to 
think  it  was  only  wounded  pride  after  all  which  had 
prompted  her  refusal.  "Why,  my  dearest  little  girl, 
I've  wanted  to  propose  to  you  dozens  of  times.  I  only 
refrained  because  I  had  made  up  my  mind  never  to 
marry  until  I  was  in  a  position  to  give  my  wife  every 
comfort.  We  should  neither  of  us  have  been  happy 
in  a  small  house  in  a  side  street  with  one  grubby 
maidservant." 

"Happy!  Oh,  Frank!"  ,said  Barbara.  Then  she 
began  to  weep  bitterly,  not  for  the  present  but  for  that 
vanished  time  when  she  would  have  shared  a  hovel 
with  him  and  thought  it  Paradise. 

"Then  what  is  the  matter?"  he  demanded,  naturally 
exasperated. 

She  wiped  her  eyes  and  said,  struggling  desperately 
to  express  what  she  felt,  for  his  sake:  "It's  all  those 
years  ...  I  think  they  did  something  to  me  .  .  . 
You  know  how  they  say  in  Flodmouth  you're  'past' 
your  meals  when  you  have  waited  so  long  that  you 
can't  eat  anything?  Well,  I — I  think  I  must  be  past 


A  DAY  IN  THE  AVENUE  53 

your  love,  Frank.  I  wanted  it  so  long.  And  now  it's 
come,  I  can't  take  it.  I  don't  want  it  any  more." 

"But  this  is  senseless,"  said  Frank.  "Do  you 
realise  that  you  are  ruining  my  happiness  and  your  own 
for  a  mere  fancy?  Come,  be  reasonable,  Barbara." 

"I  am,"  wept  Barbara.  '  "That's  just  what  I  am. 
I  wish  I  were  not.  I  don't  love  you  any  more  in  the 
way  you  mean.  I  can't  marry  you." 

"But  why?"  persisted  he. 

She  looked  round  the  kitchen  as  if  some  further 
argument  might  be  written  on  the  walls,  then  let  her 
hands  drop  hopelessly  in  her  lap. 

"I  wonder  if  I  got  over  you  when  I  was  nursing  in 
Bournemouth  and  didn't  find  it  out  until  I  saw  you 
again.  I  worked  so  awfully  hard  there  that  I  hadn't 
time  to  think  about  anything  in  the  day,  and  at  night 
I  slept  like  a  log.  I  don't  know !" 

"Well,  I  think  I  have  been  abominably "  began 

Garret,  when  Mrs.  Simpson's  slow  footsteps  sounded 
in  the  passage  outside.  "There's  your  mother!" 

"Yes.    Don't  you  want  to  see  her  ?" 

"No." 

"Then  come  out  this  way." 

She  ran  through  the  scullery  and  he  followed  her. 
The  door  banged  with  a  sound  of  empty  finality,  and 
Barbara — whose  soul  was  somehow  peculiarly  attuned 
to  the  meaning  of  sounds — came  back  into  the  kitchen 
and  faced  her  mother. 

"Well,  has  the  woman  brought  the  collars?"  said 
Mrs.  Simpson. 

"No."  Barbara  paused.  "It  was  not  the  collars, 
Mother." 

"Who  came  then?" 


54 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Frank  Garret." 

"What!"  cried  Mrs.  Simpson.  "Frank  Garret  in 
the  kitchen!  Why  didn't  you  bring  him  into  the 
room  ?" 

"He  wanted  to  see  me  by  myself." 

Mrs.  Simpson  looked  eagerly  at  her  girl — her 
beloved  girl  for  whom  she  so  passionately  desired 
happiness.  But  she  said  nothing. 

"Mother,  he  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

"Dearest,  I'm  so  glad,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson,  restrain- 
ing the  words  of  love  she  knew  her  daughter  did  not 
want  just  then,  and  forcing  herself  to  stand  quietly 
waiting. 

"There's  nothing  to  be  glad  about.  I  refused 
him." 

"Refused  him!"  echoed  Mrs.  Simpson  stupidly. 
"Why,  I  always  thought " 

"So  did  I.    But  I  found  out  I  didn't." 

They  looked  at  each  other.  Then  Mrs.  Simpson 
kissed  her  Barbara's  soft  cheek  once  and  drew  away. 

"Are  you  sure,  dear?"  she  said  gently. 

"Quite,  quite  sure,  Mother." 

"Then  what  are  you  crying  for?" 

"Because  .  .  .  because  I  don't  love  him  any  more." 
And  this  time,  of  her  own  accord,  she  threw  her  arms 
round  her  mother's  neck  and  wept  on  that  kind  shoulder 
as  she  had  not  done  since  she  was  little. 

But  very  soon  she  lifted  up  her  head  and  wiped  her 
eyes,  saying  briskly:  "Time  to  get  tea  ready.  You 
go  back  to  the  dining-room,  Mother,  and  I'll  bring  tea 
in,  in  five  minutes." 

Mrs.  Simpson  hesitated  a  moment,  then  smiled  her 
pretty,  timid  smile  at  Barbara  and  went  out  of  the 


A  DAY  IN  THE  AVENUE  55 

kitchen,  though  she  longed  to  remain  and  talk  it  all 
over.  But  to  her  quick,  sensitive  mind  Barbara's  desire 
to  avoid  further  confidences  had  been  quite  as  clear  as 
if  it  had  been  spoken  aloud. 

The  girls  had  gone  to  bed  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Simpson 
were  alone  in  the  back  room.  There  was  a  long  silence, 
during  which  Mrs.  Simpson  now  and  then  looked  at 
her  husband  over  the  top  of  her  newspaper.  At  last 
she  said : 

"Well,  Sam,  what  is  it?" 

"Nothing.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Mr. 

Simpson  irritably.  "Seems  to  me  the  Russians " 

And  he  returned  to  his  paper. 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  disappointed  about  Barbara 
refusing  Frank  Garret.  So  am  I."  She  sighed.  "It 
would  be  a  great  thing  to  feel  the  girls  had  somebody 
to  look  after  them  in  these  uncertain  times,  in  case 
anything  happened  to  us." 

"Oh,  I  don't  worry  so  much  about  that,"  said  Mr. 
Simpson  shortly.  "After  all,  girls  can  fend  for  them- 
selves now-a-days." 

"They  can  while  they're  young,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson. 
"However,  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  have  Barbara 
marry  a  man  she  did  not  love." 

"No — no !  Pity  it  has  happened  so,  that's  all,"  said 
Mr.  Simpson. 

There  followed  another  silence,  disturbed  only  by 
the  rustling  of  newspapers.  Mrs.  Simpson  again 
broke  it. 

"See  anybody  when  you  were  out  after  tea?" 

"Yes.    I  saw  Walters."     (Walters  being  the  clergy- 


56 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

man  of  the  parish,  whose  son  Ted  had  been  Jim's  great 
friend  in  their  boyhood.) 

"Any  news  of  Ted?" 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  to-night  ?" 

Mrs.  Simpson's  eyes  contracted  with  that  nervous 
dread  of  sorrow  which  comes  in  these  days  to  people 
who  have  suffered  greatly  and  are  in  bad  health ;  then 
she  pulled  herself  together  to  bear  what  was  coming 
and  her  pupils  dilated  again. 

"Has  he  fallen?" 

"No.  But  I  don't  know  that  it  isn't  worse.  He's 
wounded  and  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  the 
Germans." 

"Oh !  Poor  Mrs.  Walters !  Poor  things !"  said  Mrs. 
Simpson,  wiping  her  eyes. 

Mr.  Simpson  grunted. 

"I  said  I'd  better  not  tell  you  to-night  You  won't 
sleep." 

"What's  that  matter  ?" 

Silence  again :  the  clock  ticked  so  loudly. 

"Well,  our  being  down  in  the  dumps  won't  help 
matters,"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  turning  his  paper. 

"I  know.  But  all  these  young  lives.  Sam,  I  can't 
understand  it.  All  the  mothers  praying  .  .  .  If  I 
were  God  .  .  ."  Her  incoherent  words  trailed  off 
into  a  sigh. 

Mr.  Simpson  put  his  paper  down  on  his  knee  and 
looked  straight  at  her  with  troubled  eyes  gleaming 
through  his  spectacles. 

"Harriet,  I  sometimes  begin  to  wonder  if  there  is  a 
God,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"You  can't  help  feeling  like  that,"  said  Mrs.  Simp- 
son, almost  whispering.  "All  these  Flodmouth  boys 


A  DAY  IN  THE  AVENUE  57 

full  of  spirits  and  promise  that  we've  known  all  our 
lives.  .  .  .  But  we  wouldn't  have  kept  our  boy  back, 
Sam." 

"No.  His  country  was  attacked  and  he  had  to 
defend  her,  same  as  he  would  you." 

They  sat  on  either  side  of  the  fireless  grate,  most 
desolate,  as  if  a  wind  blew  across  them  from  a  place  in 
which  there  was  no  hope.  .  .  .  But  this  was  the  very 
first  time  in  their  whole  lives  that  they  had  really  talked 
of  God  together. 

Then  the  clock  struck.  Mr.  Simpson  jumped  up 
from  his  seat  and  flung  down  his  newspaper. 

"Dammit!"  he  said.  "The  brutes  have  killed  my 
boy  and  my  business;  they  shan't  kill  my  faith  in 
God!" 

It  was  after  midnight,  and  every  one  was  in  bed  at 
No.  28  Chestnut  Avenue,  but  important  things  in  the 
history  of  the  souls  under  that  roof  were  being  enacted. 

Gradually,  the  rush  and  clang  of  the  city  had  died 
down  and  ceased  to  accompany  their  thoughts,  but 
there  was  still  the  occasional  high  shriek  of  the  engines 
over  the  wall  at  the  end  of  the  Avenue,  the  dull  sound 
of  shouting,  the  reverberating  footstep  of  some  belated 
person  coming  home. 

Each  of  the  Simpsons  slept  in  odd  snatches,  and 
woke  every  time  to  find  themselves  whirling  round, 
round,  round,  on  the  unresting  wheel  of  thought — most 
sleepers  know  that  waking,  and  the  feel  of  the  wheel 
beginning  to  turn,  turn,  turn  again,  with  an  ache  in 
every  revolution. 

Thus  Mr.  Simpson,  lying  so  quiet  by  his  wife's  side, 
was  obliged  to  clutch  that  dizzying  wheel.  Words 


58  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

flashed  by  him  in  the  darkness.  Pain  .  .  .  pain  .  .  . 
the  young  lives.  .  .  .  We  must  stick  it  out  to  the 
end,  or  they're  all  wasted.  .  .  .  He  turned  over, 
trying  to  find  ease,  but  never  for  a  moment  getting 
free. 

And  Mrs.  Simpson  by  his  side,  seeming  so  quiet 
that  he  thought  her  asleep.  She  too  hung  in  a  sort  of 
agony  on  that  wheel,  with  the  sweat  breaking  out  upon 
lips  and  forehead  that  she  dared  not  wipe  away  lest 
her  husband  should  feel  her  movement  and  be  troubled 
at  her  wakefulness.  Round,  round,  each  time  a  deeper 
agony  .  .  .  Men  suffering,  lads  lying  dead  on  forlorn 
battle-fields  .  .  .  No!  No!  Surely  not  there.  .  .  . 
O  God,  help  me  to  see  the  dead  where  they  really  are ; 
they  are  .  .  .  safe — happy — out  of  it  all  ...  God 
help  me — if  there  is  a  God ! 

So,  swinging  on  that  terrible  wheel,  dazed,  almost 
despairing,  Mrs.  Simpson  lifted  up  her  soul. 

No  comfort  came.  There  seemed  to  be  no  one  at  all 
in  the  dark  void  to  which  she  looked.  Then,  gradually, 
after  a  long  while,  she  began  to  feel  a  response.  There 
was  a  lightening  of  her  despair.  New  courage  began 
to  flow  along  some  unseen  channel  into  her  soul.  She 
felt  the  comfort  of  God  though  she  could  not  grasp  His 
Presence. 

There  is  no  explaining  such  an  experience:  only 
Mrs.  Simpson  fell  asleep  as  sure  of  God  as  she 
was  of  Mr.  Simpson  snoring  slightly  on  the  next 
pillow. 

Barbara  also,  in  a  midnight  hour  which  seemed 
endless  to  her,  awoke  to  find  herself  clutching  the  mad- 
dening wheel.  Round,  round,  round  it  went:  though 
her  thoughts  seemed  light  and  trivial  enough  when 


A  DAY  IN  THE  AVENUE  59 

compared  with  those  in  the  room  just  below.  But 
the  faith  of  youth  in  the  supreme  importance  of  love 
alone  keeps  the  world  sweet  enough  for  youth  to  bloom 
in  at  present,  so  her  thoughts  mattered  after  all.  Do 
I  love  him?  I  must  ...  I  did  so  long — long  .  .  . 
Oh,  that  kiss  .  .  .  (A  burying  of  the  face  in  the  pillow, 
and  a  rush  of  unrecognised  emotions.)  Oh,  I  don't 
know :  I  don't  know ! 

Elsie,  on  the  other  bed,  kept  awake  by  the  pain  in 
her  weak  back,  stared  starkly  up  into  the  ceiling.  But 
she  was  the  happiest  of  the  four  people  in  the  house 
as  she  murmured  a  verse  which  she  had  just  composed : 
for  though  the  lines  were  crude  and  school-girlish 
enough  they  made  her  free  of  that  country  which  is  a 
refuge  from  life.  She  glowed  as  she  lay  there,  pinched 
and  sallow-faced  and  full  of  pain,  with  that  joy  of 
expressing  herself  in  words  which  is  no  more  to  be 
explained  than  any  other  emotion. 

But  at  breakfast  next  morning  the  Simpsons  bore 
no  trace  whatever  of  the  experiences  which  they  had 
passed  through  in  the  night.  Barbara  poured  out  the 
coffee  with  the  calm,  bright  face  of  morning  girl- 
hood which  hides  so  many  things,  and  Mrs.  Simpson 
acknowledged  that  she  had  slept  rather  badly,  while 
Mr.  Simpson  was  very  cheerful,  rubbing  his  hands 
and  making  little  jokes. 

Over  the  breakfast  table  they  talked  of  the  approach- 
ing Bellerby  wedding,  and  of  the  war  news  and  the 
weather. 

"Pass  the  butter,"  said  Mr.  Simpson. 

And  that  started  the  old  argument  as  to  whether 


60  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

margarine   were   pronounced   like   Margaret   or    like 
Marjory. 

It  would  seem  incredible — were  it  not  so  common — 
that  each  of  the  four  Simpsons  had  but  just  come  back 
from  those  forlorn  and  desert  places  where  human 
souls  wander  alone  in  the  night. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A   SOLDIER 

ARBARA  and  Elsie  were  walking  in  the  long  road 
where  the  trams  run  when  they  encountered  Mr. 
Frank  Garret,  and  the  greeting  on  both  sides  was  so 
constrained  that  a  sharp  younger  sister,  after  passing 
on,  inquired  at  once — 

"Whatever's  up  now  ?" 

Barbara,  brightly  red  like  a  rose  in  a  shower,  said 
with  abruptness  that  nothing  was  up,  and  that  she 
was  sick  of  such  nonsense  .  .  .  time  Elsie  went  back 
to  school ! 

All  the  same,  the  facts  of  the  case  could  no  longer 
be  concealed,  and  a  pledge  of  secrecy  seemed  less 
dangerous  than  a  refusal  to  give  desired  information. 

"Only,  I  won't  hear  another  word  about  it,"  said 
Barbara. 

But  when  night  came  she  went  upstairs  to  find  Elsie, 
of  course,  sitting  on  the  side  of  her  bed,  with  dark 
eyes  flaming  like  lamps  under  a  roughened  mop  of 
dark  hair:  for  the  girl  was  all  afire  with  vicarious 
romance,  despite  the  girding  and  critical  spirit  which 
kept  her  from  dreaming  precocious  dreams  on  her  own 
account. 

"Oh,  Barbara,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  the  door  was 
closed,  and  speaking  in  italics  as  usual :  "I  can't  help 

61 


62  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

feeling  thrilled  at  your  refusing  Frank  Garret.  What 
did  he  say  ?  Did  he  go  down  on  his  knees  ?  I  suppose 
you  refused  him  just  to  pay  him  out  for  dangling  such 
a  long  time,  and  keeping  you  on  a  bit  of  string.  But 
what  shall  you  do  if  he  doesn't  ask  you  again?" 

"Don't  talk  rot.  We  no  longer  live  in  the  dark 
ages  of  woman  when  three  Noes  meant  one  Yes," 
said  Barbara.  "You  get  off  to  bed  and  let  me  do  the 
same." 

"I  think  you  are  very  mean,"  said  Elsie,  reluctantly 
beginning  to  undress.  Then  she  reflected  that  Barbara 
was  probably  keeping  her  romance  sacred  in  the  virgin 
recesses  of  her  own  heart — vide  a  novel  devoured  on 
the  previous  day. 

But  in  any  case  Barbara  was  certainly  disappoint- 
ing, for  she  did  none  of  those  things  which  Elsie's  idea 
of  romance  demanded.  She  neither  leaned  from  the 
bedroom  window  gazing  pensively  in  the  direction  of 
the  suburb  where  Frank  Garret  resided,  nor  did  she 
take  a  long  time  in  brushing  her  hair  while  staring  into 
the  looking-glass.  On  the  contrary,  she  made  as  much 
haste  as  possible,  splashed  herself  at  the  wash-stand, 
prayed  with  a  serene  and  obtrusive  absorption  and 
jumped  into  bed  saying  she  was  dog-tired  and  should 
go  to  sleep  at  once. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Elsie,  also  kneeling  down  and 
taking  refuge  in  the  Courts  of  the  Infinite. 

In  a  short  time — a  very  short  time — she  rose  from 
her  knees.  A  gentle  snore  proceeded  from  the  other 
bed.  Elsie  bit  her  lips  and  frowned  angrily,  but  she 
continued  to  undress  in  silence,  glancing  every  now 
and  then  at  a  bright  brown  plait  and  a  piece  of  white- 
clad  shoulder.  At  last  she  approached  the  bed,  when 


A  SOLDIER  63 


another  snore,  rather  louder,  greeted  her.  Then  she 
seized  hold  of  the  shoulder  and  shook  it  fiercely,  her 
hair  hanging  round  her  in  a  black  cloud  and  her  great 
eyes  shining  through. 

"Stop  that!"  she  said.  "If  you  won't  talk  to  me 
about  your  private  affairs,  say  so  straight  out.  I  don't 
care.  I  don't  want  people  to  confide  in  me  who  don't 
want  to.  But  I  won't  be  deceived  by  snores  that 
wouldn't  deceive  a  child  in  arms,  snored  by  people  who 
never  snore.  I  won't !  So  there !"  She  broke  off  and 
choked.  "You  think  it's  just  curiosity.  It  isn't.  It's 
— it's  because  I'm  so  fond  of  you.  I  want  you  so  to  be 
happy,  Barbie." 

The  snoring  abruptly  ceased  and  Barbara  sat  up. 
"I  never  meant  to  be  horrid,  Elsie.  The  only  thing 
is  ...  I  simply  can't  talk  about  it."  After  a  moment 
or  two,  she  added  softly :  "Good-night,  old  Elsie." 

Elsie  crossed  the  room  and  blew  out  the  light. 
"Well,  you  can  go  to  sleep  now,"  she  remarked.  "But 
don't  snore  this  time  or  I  shall  tell  Frank  Garret  that 
you  are  a  confirmed  snorer.  Then  the  game  really  will 
be  up.  Good-night." 

"Good-night,"  echoed  Barbara,  almost  meekly, 
burying  her  head  beneath  the  bed-clothes  away  from 
this  terribly  articulate  young  sister. 

Next  morning  she  drew  up  the  blind  and  spoke  joy- 
'fully  to  Elsie,  who  was  still  in  bed. 

"I  say!    Glorious  day  for  the  wedding." 

And  all  up  and  down  the  Avenue,  through  the  smoke 

haze   which   had   a   delicate,   pearly   loveliness   quite 

different  from  the  blue  and  gold  of  the  morning  beyond 

the  town,   these  words  or  similar  ones   were  being 


THE  SILENT  LEGION 


spoken.  For  the  women's  hearts  turned  through  all 
the  sadness  of  life  now  to  the  thought  of  Blanche 
Bellerby's  happy  wedding,  as  you  may  see  flowers  in 
a  dark  place  yearn  towards  the  sun. 

So,  at  the  appointed  hour,  those  who  were  free  began 
to  move  in  twos  and  threes  towards  the  dirty,  yellow- 
brick  church.  Workers  in  uniform,  or  in  the  shabby 
gowns  they  had  worn  while  packing  for  prisoners  of 
war,  hurried  in  to  mingle  oddly  enough  with  the  last 
year's  finery  of  the  rest ;  a  few  women  in  deep  mourn- 
ing made  black  patches  among  the  goldish  pitch-pine 
pews  that  stood  nearly  empty  at  the  back  of  the  church, 
but  even  they  had  a  sort  of  reflected  sunshine  on  their 
faces.  .  .  .  Here  were  hope  and  youth  and  love  after 
all  still  alive  in  the  world  then.  They  greeted  the 
sight  of  it  as  one  does  the  first  crocus  after  a  long,  sad 
winter,  with  a  tightening  of  the  heart-strings  and  yet  a 
sudden  rush  of  joy. 

It  was  thus  little  Mrs.  Du  Caine  felt,  as  she  watched 
the  bridegroom  waiting,  and  thought  of  her  husband 
in  France  and  of  her  own  wedding.  Near  her  were 
Barbara  and  Elsie  and  Mrs.  Wilson,  and  they  all 
whispered  about  the  bridegroom,  whose  clean-cut, 
nervous  profile  was  outlined  strongly  against  the  pale 
wall  of  the  church. 

"They  say  he  has  been  awarded  the  Military 
Cross." 

"Any  amount  of  money,  I  hear." 

"Yes:  and  the  Elliotts  are  very  well  connected. 
Blanche  would  never  have  come  across  him  in  peace 
times,  of  course." 

"Well,  I  call  it  a  fine  face." 


A  SOLDIER  65 


They  paused,  watching  him  move  nearer  the  altar 
steps. 

"Fancy,"  murmured  Elsie,  with  intensity,  "any 
one  even  looking  like  that  about  Blanche!  Blanche 
Bellerby,  that  used  to  call  names  over  the  wall  and 
crack  nuts  with  her  teeth.  Love  must  be  a  queer 
thing." 

"Hush!"  said  Barbara,  "here  is  the  bridegroom's 
mother  coming  in.  I  know  her  by  sight  from  that 
picture  in  the  Princess.  She  turned  her  country  house 
into  a  hospital  and  acts  as  Commandant,  though  they 
say  she  spent  most  of  her  days  in  bed  before  the 
war." 

"Oh,  lots  like  her.    Wonderful,  isn't  it?" 

"How  lovely  she  must  have  been,"  murmured 
Barbara,  as  the  tall,  frail-looking  woman  went  past 
them  up  the  aisle  with  her  thoughts  so  fixed  on  her 
son  that  the  other  people  in  the  church  were  plainly 
invisible  to  her. 

Elsie  leaned  close  to  Barbara,  her  dark  eyes  shining 
in  her  little,  gaunt  face. 

"Now  I  see  what  it  is!"  she  whispered  eagerly. 
"She's  given  him  Blanche  just  as  she'd  give  him  the 
heart  out  of  her  body  if  he  wanted  it.  Poor  mother! 
Poor  mother!  I  do  wish  she'd  got  somebody  better 
than  Blanche."  .  .  . 

"Don't  be  silly !  Blanche'll  turn  out  all  right,"  said 
Barbara. 

Then  Mrs.  Wilson  said  in  her  ponderous  way — 

"I  dislike  these  hurried  war-weddings.  I  cannot 
understand  how  any  mother " 

"Oh,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Du  Caine,  "here  she  comes! 
Here  she  comes!" 


66 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

And  as  Blanche  came  up  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of  her 
most  presentable  male  relative,  wearing  the  beautiful 
veil  and  necklace  of  pearls  that  Mrs.  Elliott  had  worn 
on  her  own  wedding-day,  all  the  hard  thoughts  which 
the  onlookers  might  have  had  about  the  bride  fled  away 
for  the  time  being,  and  those  kind  wishes  which  the 
wedding  angels  bring  were  hovering  very  tenderly 
over  the  young  soldier  and  the  girl  by  his  side  when 
the  service  began. 

As  Barbara  sat  looking  at  them  with  wide  eyes  and 
a  bright  flush  on  her  cheeks,  she  heard  a  little  move- 
ment and  saw  Frank  Garret  enter  a  pew  close  by. 
For  a  moment  she  felt  the  old  nervous  beating  of  the 
pulses — the  old,  half-sickening:  "Will  he  speak  to 
me?  Won't  he?  Oh,  I  wonder  if  that  girl  he  is  near 
will  keep  him?"  Then  it  all  cleared  away  as  if  a  fresh 
wind  had  passed  over  some  stagnant  place;  and  she 
knew,  with  a  sudden  sense  of  freedom,  that  she  didn't 
care  a  button  whether  he  sought  her  out  or  not.  She 
had  truly — during  that  year  of  hard  work  and  grim 
realities  at  Bournemouth — "got  over  him." 

She  listened  to  the  words  of  the  Marriage  Service, 
which  have  for  the  ears  of  a  girl  like  Barbara  an  eternal 
newness  and  beauty,  and  remembered  with  a  sort  of 
wonder  how  she  had  sat  behind  Frank  Garret  at 
another  wedding  five  years  ago.  Then  the  whole 
church  suddenly  seemed  to  swim  in  a  golden  mist, 
while  she  clung  half-fainting  to  the  edge  of  the  pew 
before  her — and  all  because  she  had  seen  a  vision  of 
herself  standing  in  white  with  Frank  before  that  same 
altar. 

':    That  was  indeed  her  girl's  waking  to  the  physical 
side  of  love,  though  she  remained  even  now  unaware 


A  SOLDIER  67 


of  the  fact;  for  her  delicate  young  dreams  had  always 
been  suffused  with  a  sort  of  glory  haze  which  left 
outlines  indefinite. 

Now  she  glanced  at  Frank's  fine  figure  in  front 
and  the  few  silver  hairs  at  the  side  of  his  head,  which 
only  increased  his  good  looks,  just  showed  from  where 
she  sat.  He  turned  his  head.  She  noticed  that  his 
neck  bulged  in  a  red  fold  over  his  collar  at  the  back. 

The  long  habit  of  worship  held.  She  drew  back 
startled  from  such  blasphemy.  But  immediately  her 
spirit  used  its  new  freedom  and  she  said  to  herself: 
"It  does  bulge !  it  does!  How  could  I  not  have  noticed 
it  before?  I  must  have  been  blind." 

Then  the  short  service  was  finished,  and  bride  and 
bridegroom  came  down  the  aisle  man  and  wife.  But 
the  young  soldier  saw  nobody  in  the  church  save 
Blanche :  not  even  his  mother,  who  leaned  f orward 
from  her  pew  to  smile  at  him  with  such  love  and  wistful 
tenderness  in  her  white  face  that  Elsie  muttered,  half 
aloud — 

"Look,  you  fool!  Look!  You're  not  going  to  get 
that  any  more  in  this  world,  even  if  you  marry  fifty 
Blanche  Bellerbys." 

"Hush,  Elsie!"  said  Barbara. 

"I  don't  care !  I  could  murder  Blanche  if  she  doesn't 
let  him  go  on  thinking  her  that — at  any  rate,  till  he 
gets  back  to  France.  Oh,  Barbie,  I  do  so  hope  she 
will!" 

So  it  was  all  over,  and  Barbara  bowed  to  Frank  as 
he  came  out,  and — most  wonderful!  most  strange — 
was  not  in  a  fever  of  anxiety  lest  he  should  fail  to 
catch  her  up 'and  walk  home  with  her.  She  even  said 
to  herself,  "Am  I  a  beastly  flirt  that  only  wants  to 


68 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

make  sure  of  a  man  and  then  has  no  further  use  for 
him?"  But  glancing  back  at  the  dim,  flowery  altar 
from  the  light  doorway,  she  knew  it  was  not  that: 
she  had  prayed  so  often  amid  the  excitement  of  heat 
and  music  at  a  Sunday  night  service  here,  that  he 
might  truly  love  her. 

She  felt  a  wistful  pity  for  the  girl  she  was  then  as 
she  passed  in  the  porch  without  speaking.  And  yet 
they  might  have  been  coming  out  husband  and  wife 
together. 

But  it  was  true  enough,  as  Miss  Felling  said  in  walk- 
ing home,  that  a  wedding  always  leaves  a  blank  feeling 
behind;  something  seems  about  to  happen  which 
doesn't;  so  a  deserted  greyness  with  an  illusive  scent 
of  orange-blossoms  in  the  air  haunted  Barbara  for  the 
rest  of  the  day. 

This  state  of  mind  drove  her  out  restlessly  when  her 
work  was  done,  to  call  upon  Miss  Felling.  The  room 
where  they  sat  looked  out  upon  the  dry  road  steeped  in 
late  sunshine  and  the  first  strawberry  barrow  of  the 
year  went  past:  "Strawberry!  Fresh  strawberry!" 
Fruit  barrows  were  rare  in  the  Avenue  now,  and  this 
one  seemed  to  Barbara  like  a  long  echo  from  those 
past  summers  which  now  appeared  to  have  been  all 
strawberries  and  tennis  and  careless  young  men  in 
white  flannels,  with  a  blue  and  gold  seaside  holiday 
planted  somewhere  in  the  heart  of  them. 

Then  Mrs.  Wilson  came  out  from  the  house  opposite 
to  buy  fruit  from  the  barrow  with  a  bowl  in  her  hand, 
and  if  she  did  it  with  rather  the  air  of  a  princess  going 
a-milking,  and  did  murmur  to  herself  that  talisman: 
"In  war-time  .  .  ."  which  has  gone  so  far  in  setting 
the  middle-class  free  from  a  thousand  little  snobberies, 


A  SOLDIER  69 


she  bought  fruit  off  a  common  barrow  unashamed,  all 
the  same. 

The  Bellerbys'  house  lay  closed  and  quiet  while  the 
family  of  the  bride  caroused  mildly  at  the  hotel,  but  a 
bit  of  white  flower  drifted  up  the  road  among  the  dust. 
A  soldier  coming  along  trod  on  it,  and  then  glanced 
down,  saying  to  himself:  "A  wedding  in  the  street!" 
But  not  kindly,  rather  as  if  fools  must  be  fools.  He 
looked  at  the  numbers  of  the  houses  as  he  came  along ! 
and  Miss  Felling  and  Barbara  watched  him  idly,  saying 
to  each  other — 

"I  wonder  who  that  wounded  soldier  wants  ?" 

"Yes.    Well,  he  evidently  knows  the  number." 

"He's  crossing  over." 

They  leaned  forward  to  see  better. 

"Goodness,  Miss  Felling,  he's  coming  here!" 

"Some  message  from  the  Hospital,  I  dare  say,"  said 
Miss  Felling,  rolling  up  her  knitting. 

"I'll  go  to  the  door,"  said  Barbara. 

She  opened  the  door  and  stood  in  the  gloom  of  the 
passage.  Outside,  in  the  full  light,  stood  a  very  thin, 
weather-beaten  soldier  of  middle  height  in  his  ill- 
fitting  blue  garments  of  glory. 

"You  ...  I  am  not  speaking  to  Miss  Felling?" 
he  said. 

"No.  Do  you  want  to  see  her?  Will  you  come 
in?" 

"Thank  you."  And  he  entered,  despite  the  stiffness 
of  his  left  arm,  with  an  extraordinary  lightness  and 
easiness  of  gait,  as  if  every  muscle  were  made  of  steel 
and  running  smoothly. 

"Lovely  weather,"  said  Barbara,  going  on  before 
him. 


TO THE  SILENT  LEGION 

He  muttered  some  unintelligible  response,  for  he 
was  recently  home  from  France,  where  he  had  spent 
over  a  year  practically  without  speaking  to  a  woman, 
and  he  was  for  the  moment  overcome  by  that  odd 
sense  of  embarrassment  which  many  soldiers  know  in 
the  presence  of  a  girl  after  a  year's  uninterrupted 
intercourse  with  their  own  sex.  It  is  a  sensation  which 
wears  off  almost  at  once,  but  it  was  very  disconcerting 
to  a  man  who  had  been  easily  used  to  female  society 
all  his  life  before  the  war. 

"Oh,  have  you  come  from  the  Hospital?"  said  Miss 
Felling.  And  her  directness,  and — strange  to  say — 
her  nose,  almost  restored  his  normal  balance. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  am  here  for  massage  and  elec- 
tricity before  joining  my  regiment  at  Scarcliffe  for 
light  duty.  I've  had  a  bullet  through  my  left  arm." 

There  was  a  pause :  at  last  Miss  Felling  said,  helping 
him — • 

"I  suppose  you  have  a  message  for  me  about 
the  strawberries?  I  promised  to  send  some  to  the 
Hospital." 

"No,"  said  the  soldier,  "no." 

He  was  so  awkward  and  the  words,  "What  do  you 
want,  then?"  hovered  so  plainly  on  Miss  Felling's  lips 
that  Barbara  said  quickly,  "I  like  strawberries,  don't 
you?"  her  soft,  clear  voice  taking  on  that  deep  note 
which  always  came  into  it  when  she  was  very  anxious 
to  be  kind. 

"I'm  looking  for  a  Miss  Nelson,"  he  said,  then 
gathering  himself  together,  "Lillie  Nelson.  I  think 
she  once  lived  with  you."  He  paused,  glanced  at 
Barbara  and  added  with  a  rise  of  colour,  "My  name's 
Brooke." 

I 


A  SOLDIER  71 


"Brooke !"  cried  Miss  Felling,  jumping  up.  "You're 
not  dead !  Oh,  poor  Lillie " 

"I'm  not  the  man  who  married  Lillie  Nelson,  I'm 
his  brother." 

Miss  Felling  sat  down  again,  feeling  rather  shaken.. 
Barbara  gazed  at  Brooke  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
anxious  eyes. 

"Have  you  come  about  the  baby?"  she  said,  won- 
dering at  the  evident  good  breeding  in  this  brother  of 
a  private  soldier  of  the  old  army  who  had  taken  two 
wives  at  once.  "Little  Kitchener,  you  know?" 

"Little  Kitchener!"  said  Brooke,  staring  at  her. 
"Oh,  you  mean  Lillie's  kid?  She's  called  him  that?" 

"No,"  said  Miss  Felling,  "we  did.  Lillie  left  him 
in  a  hamper  on  my  doorstep  without  a  name,  and  then 
she  disappeared  again.  So  I  took  over  the  responsi- 
bility. Somebody  had  to.  You  couldn't  let  the  poor 
little  thing  be  neglected." 

Brooke  looked  down,  twirling  his  cap  in  his  hand. 

"It  was  hard  on  you.  You've  been  very  good.  It's 
time  I  came  and  took  on  my  brother's  responsibilities. 
You've  no  right  to  be  burdened,"  he  said,  bringing  out 
the  words  with  an  effort. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Felling,  "your  brother  is  gone 
now.  No  use  saying  anything."  .  .  .  Then  she  added 
in  a  different  tone:  "Have  you  heard  from  Lillie?" 

"No.  I  have  not  the  least  idea  where  she  is.  She 
has  evidently  moved.  That's  why  I  came  here." 

"Then  how  did  you  get  my  address?" 

"My  brother  gave  me  it.  He  said  you  would  be 
sure  to  know  where  she  was  if  I  couldn't  find  her  in 
their  old  lodgings." 

"Have  you  never  seen  her?" 


72 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Never,"  said  Brooke.  "Fact  is,  my  brother  and 
I  had  not  met  for  ten  years  until "  he  paused. 

"Until  when?"  said  Miss  Felling  sharply. 

"Well,  it  was  in  the  great  hall  at  Rouen.  We 
chanced  to  get  on  two  stretchers  side  by  side.  Things 
like  that  are  always  happening  in  this  war."  There 
was  another  pause.  Barbara  leaned  forward  with 
shining  eyes,  but  he  did  not  notice  her.  "My  brother 
•died  during  the  night.  But  we  had  some  talk  first. 
He  said  Lillie  was  a  good  sort,  and  there  was  going  to 
be  a  kid,  and  he  seemed  a  bit  worried.  Not  very, 

because  when  you  get  to  where  he  was So  he 

gave  me  your  address,  and  I  said  if  I  got  home,  I'd  do 
what  I  could." 

"Anyway,  your  brother  was  dying  for  his  country," 
said  Barbara  softly.  - 

Brooke  glanced  at  her  with  indifference;  that  other 
scene  came  like  a  curtain  let  down  between  them. 
But  his  simplicity  seemed  to  make  them  all  oddly 
simple. 

"Yes.  You  can't  do  more  than  that,"  said  Miss 
Felling.  "Would  you  like  to  see  the  child?  I  can 
arrange  to  let  you  see  it  to-morrow.  It  is  with  a 
woman  quite  near." 

"If  you  will  be  so  kind."  He  paused.  "Who's 
paying?"  he  said  abruptly. 

,  "Oh,  well  ...  I  am.  Quite  all  right,"  muttered 
Miss  Felling,  embarrassed  as  ever  by  her  own  good 
deeds.  "Boys  wanted  for  the  Empire,"  she  added 
vaguely,  trying  to  give  it  an  impersonal  aspect. 

"You  must  let  me  undertake  that,  Miss  Felling," 
said  Brooke.  "The  greatest  part  of  it — looking  after 
the  boy  and  seeing  he  is  properly  done  to  and  all  that — • 


A  SOLDIER  73 


I  will  leave  to  you.  But  you  must  let  me  take  on  the 
monetary  part  of  the  responsibility." 

As  Miss  Felling  glanced  at  his  private's  badge  and 
hesitated,  he  suddenly  smiled  at  her  in  a  way  that 
curiously  illumined  his  dark  and  ravaged  face.  It's 
all  right,"  he  said.  "I  can  afford  to  keep  little 
Kitchener.  I  had  a  rotten  bad  time  out  in  Canada 
at  first;  but  in  the  end  I  made  good — in  a  moderate 
style,  that  is." 

"Are  you  a  married  man  yourself,  then?"  said 
Miss  Felling. 

He  paused,  looking  at  her;  and  his  look  said  as 
plainly  as  words:  "I  would  rather  not  talk  of  this, 
but  you  have  earned  my  confidence."  Aloud  he  said : 
"I  am  a  widower.  I  married  when  I  was  twenty-two. 
That's  why  I  went  to  Canada;  to  make  a  home  for 
my  wife.  I  worked  the  nails  off  my  fingers :  then  she 
caught  cold,  doing  the  chores  in  a  severe  frost,  while 
I  was  laid  up  with  a  sprained  knee." 

"How  sad!"  said  Miss  Felling.  She  had  to  say 
something,  though  the  words  sounded  very  futile  to 
herself. 

Barbara  did  not  speak.  She  only  turned  her  eyes 
from  his  face  lest  she  should  see  something  there  that 
he  would  rather  hide. 

"I  look  older  than  I  am,"  he  continued.  "I  came 
at  the  end  of  a  big  family.  My  father  was  a  country 
parson  on  a  hundred  and  eighty  a  year,  and  we  had 
to  live  on  that  and  pretend  to  keep  up  a  position  like 
the  country  gentry  and  doctors,  and  the  parsons  with 
private  means.  But  we  were  always  thankful  to  cadge 
a  good  meal  with  any  of  the  farmers  round,  and 
they  knew  it.  We  weren't  half  educated.  Then  my 


74 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

brother  got  into  trouble  and  ran  away,  and  enlisted  in 
the  Regulars  long  before  the  war.  I  hold  no  brief  for 
my  brother;  but  with  his  temperament,  I  don't  think 
he  had  much  of  a  chance." 

"No."  Miss  Felling  flushed  crimson.  Brooke's 
plain  words  deeply  moved  her,  and  she  blurted  out, 
most  anxious  to  do  something  for  the  dead  man :  "You 
can't  blame  anybody.  You  never  know  what's  inside 
people.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  my  nose  hedging  me 
round  like  a  barricade  against  men,  I  should  probably 
have  been  a  regular  high-kicking,  champagne-popping 
bad  woman  myself.  I  had  it  in  me,  and  when  I  see 
such-like  going  past,  I  always  say  to  myself :  'But  for 
a  nose  and  the  grace  of  God  there  goes  Lotty  Felling!' 
At  least,"  she  added  truthfully,  "in  some  moods  I  do." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Brooke  uncomfortably,  and  he 
turned  to  Barbara:  "Do  you  know  Scarcliffe?  I  am 
going  there  soon,  I  believe." 

"Oh  yes.  A  dear  little  seaside  place,"  said  Bar- 
bara, falling  in  hastily  into  the  change  of  subject.  She 
was  thinking  about  his  face,  how  strangely  worn  for 
a  young  man's,  with  that  mark  of  a  shrapnel  wound 
on  his  forehead  and  the  deep  lines  on  his  cheeks.  No 
one  could  possibly  call  him  well-preserved.  .  .  .  And 
with  that  word  there  floated  across  Barbara's  mind 
the  image  of  Frank  Garret,  far  less  lined  and  scarred 
than  this  man  of  twenty-eight.  "But  the  Canadians 
are  not  at  Scarcliffe,"  she  added  aloud. 

"No,  I  am  not  with  them.  I  came  over  and  joined 
up  in  England,"  he  answered ;  and  with  that  he  rose  to 
depart,  standing  near  the  window  where  the  full  light 
fell  on  his  face.  Barbara  saw  that  it  was  even  more 
ravaged  than  she  had  thought :  he  had  not  been  afraid 


A  SOLDIER  75 


of  life,  at  all  events — exile,  love,  marriage,  poverty, 
fighting,  pain — of  the  great  experiences  there  only 
remained  death.  ...  As  she  looked  at  his  thin,  shortish 
figure  in  the  window,  the  phrase  formed  itself,  oddly 
defiant,  within  her :  "Well,  he's  ready  for  death !" 

On  the  top  of  this,  his  commonplace,  "Then  I'll  come 
in  to-morrow  if  I  may,  Miss  Felling,  and  fix  everything 
up  with  you,"  sounded  almost  incongruous.  Then  he 
shook  hands  with  both  ladies  and  went  away  down  the 
Avenue,  an  ordinary  little  blue-suited,  wounded  soldier, 
having  a  firm  alertness  of  step  which  was  yet  so  unlike 
Mr.  Simpson's  cork-like  buoyancy. 

Barbara  had  a  chance  to  compare  the  two  footsteps 
because  the  men  passed  in  the  Avenue,  each  deep  in 
his  own  reflections  and  unaware  of  the  other.  Mr. 
Simpson  afterwards  manifested  great  regret  at  his 
absent-mindedness,  and  said  emphatically  that  Brooke 
must  be  a  very  decent  chap.  Few  men  would  have 
gone  out  of  their  way  to  take  on  such  an  apparently 
permanent  responsibility  as  little  Kitchener. 

Mrs.  Simpson  sat  in  her  armchair  at  the  time,  hiding 
her  pallor  with  such  a  radiance  of  eager  interest  that 
it  passed  unnoticed. 

"How  wonderful  the  two  brothers  should  come 
across  each  other  like  that,"  she  said.  "Amongst  all 
those  thousands  of  men." 

And  immediately,  for  the  four  Simpsons,  the  cheer- 
ful walls  of  their  room  dissolved  into  a  great,  high, 
vaulted  space,  quite  different  from  actual  reality  and 
yet  wonderfully  near  to  it  in  another  way.  A  great 
place  filled  with  pain.  .  .  . 

Elsie  first  revolted  from  the  vision:  it  was  not 
there :  she  was  not  going  to  bear  it. 


76 THE  SILENT  LEGION      

"Well,  I  can't  believe  they  ever  could  come  across 
each  other  like  that,  and  I  believe  it's  all  a  made-up 
tale.  If  I  were  Miss  Felling,  I  should  keep  an  eye  on 
Gladys." 

"It  certainly  does  seem  strange  that  Brooke  shonld 
go  out  of  his  way  to  get  mixed  up  in  such  an  unpleasant 
affair,"  said  Mr.  Simpson.  "I  can't  see  that  he  has 
any  real  responsibility,  particularly  as  the  brothers 
had  not  met  for  years." 

"Father!"  cried  Barbara.  "You  know  any  man 
would  promise  his  brother  anything  at  a  time  like 
that.  It  wouldn't  matter  a  toss  how  long  they'd  been 
parted :  they'd  once  been  little  together." 

"Um !"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  sitting  down  to  his  news- 
paper. "We  had  better  wait  until  to-morrow.  Time 
will  show.  Perhaps  now  he  has  made  sure  that  the  child 
is  being  properly  looked  after,  he  won't  turn  up  again." 

"I'm  sure  he  will,  then !"  said  Barbara  hotly. 

Mrs.  Simpson  glanced  at  her  daughter's  flushed 
cheeks. 

"What  sort  of  looking  man  is  he?"  she  said,  with 
apparent  carelessness. 

"Oh!"  Barbara  paused,  obviously  unready  with  a 
description.  "Well,  he  is  rather  short  and  has  a 
scar  on  his  forehead  and  looks  frightfully  worn  and 
weather-beaten." 

"Young?"  said  Mrs.  Simpson. 

"Yes,  but  he  seems  much  older  than  he  is.  He  has 
rather  a  Canadian  accent." 

"Married?"  asked  Elsie.  "But  he  probably 
wouldn't  tell." 

"Yes;  at  least  he  is  a  widower." 

Mrs.  Simpson  heaved  a  little  sigh  of  relief.    She  so 


A  SOLDIER  77 


passionately  loved  her  girls  that  she  was  over-anxious 
about  every  trifle  concerning  them,  though  she  tried 
to  hide  it  lest  they  should  be  fretted :  and  she  there- 
fore felt  glad  to  hear  this  new-comer  into  Barbara's 
circle  was  so  obviously  unromantic.  The  brother  of 
Miss  Felling's  Lillie's  bigamous  husband  might  be 
chivalrous  in  intent,  but  a  vague  prejudice  against  him 
lingered  in  the  back  of  her  mind,  all  the  same. 


CHAPTER  V 

LITTLE  WHEELS  WITHIN  WHEELS 

NEXT  day  Barbara  was  laying  the  table  for  the 
midday  meal  somewhat  listlessly,  having  reached 
that  stage  when  all  the  glamour  of  a  new  beginning 
goes  off  and  only  solid  reality  is  left  behind.  The 
endless  round  of  domestic  duties  looked  terribly  dull 
and  aimless  to  her  at  that  moment,  and  she  longed  to 
be  out  in  the  world  among  the  other  women,  working 
and  spending,  doing  something  definite  for  her  country 
or  herself.  The  very  fork  she  was  holding  would  be 
soiled,  washed,  placed  on  the  table  again,  soiled  again. 

The  sounds  of  Flodmouth  beat  monotonously 
through  her  head,  though  she  was  not  conscious  of 
them.  With  an  impatient  gesture,  as  if  choking  for 
air,  she  flung  up  the  window  and  stood  breathing 
deeply;  then  she  heard  her  father  enter  from  behind, 
and  her  mother  immediately  followed.  She  shut  the 
window  and  took  up  the  tray  without  speaking,  but  as 
she  was  crossing  the  room  something  in  her  father's 
appearance  struck  her  as  being  slightly  unusual.  He 
looked  jaded  and  excited  and  yet  flat — if  such  a  combi- 
nation be  possible — while  Mrs.  Simpson  kept  glancing 
rather  anxiously  at  him  from  her  seat  by  the  empty 
fire-grate. 

"Well,  Father?"  she  said. 

78 


LITTLE  WHEELS  WITHIN  WHEELS    79 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  her  daughter,  more 
directly. 

"Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Simpson. 

"Well,  you  don't  look  in  very  good  spirits." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  with  decision, 
"I  am  in  very  good  spirits  indeed."  He  paused. 
"I've  found  a  job  at  last." 

"Oh,  where?  Where?"  cried  Barbara  excitedly, 
putting  down  her  tray.  Then  she  ran  to  the  room 
door  and  called  out:  "Elsie!  Elsie!  Father's  got 
something  to  do." 

As  Elsie  came  running  into  the  room,  Mr.  Simpson 
glanced  at  Mrs.  Simpson  with  the  cowardice  in  his  eyes 
which  occasionally  attacks  all  good  husbands  in  the 
presence  of  all  good  wives.  He  was  afraid  of  what 
she  would  say  when  he  told  her,  because  it  would  be 
what  he  so  acutely  felt.  But  he  only  said  nonchalantly : 
"Yes.  Wagstaffes  have  taken  me  on." 

"What!  The  office  in  which  you  were  placed  as  a 
boy,  before  you  set  up  in  business  for  yourself !  How 
splendid!"  said  Mrs.  Simpson.  "But,  of  course,  they 
would  be  the  very  ones  to  know  your  true  value." 

"Um !  Well,  I  rather  hope  not,"  said  Mr.  Simpson, 

smiling  uneasily.  "The  screw  isn't But  I'm  so 

dead  sick  of  earning  nothing  and  hanging  about  the 
place  idle." 

"What  are  they  giving  you?"  said  Elsie;  for  in 
the  Simpson  family  everything  was  open  to  discussion; 
there  were  no  mysteries  and  reserves  in  it. 

"Well,  it  sounds  very  poor,"  said  Mr.  Simpson, 
looking  at  his  wife.  "But  anything's  better  than 
nothing,  you  know.  They're  giving  me  thirty  shillings 
a  week." 


8o THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"What!"  cried  Elsie.  "Oh,  Dad,  to  a  clever  busi- 
ness man  like  you !  Why,  Irene  Markham  up  the  street 
is  getting  twenty-five,  and  she's  a  perfect  silly." 

"Of  course,  Wagstaffes  will  give  you  promotion," 
said  Barbara.  "Your  experience  will  soon  tell,  even 
in  a  different  trade  from  your  own." 

"Oh,  no  doubt !  No  doubt !  I  ought  to  have  learned 
something  in  my  time,  but  it  takes  a  wise  man  to  know 
his  own  father,  but  a  wiser  one  to  know  by  instinct 
what's  at  the  bottom  of  a  fruit  case."  He  chuckled 
anxiously — a  feeble  imitation  of  his  familiar  jolly 
chuckle — as  he  glanced  from  one  to  the  other :  and 
something  in  his  look  and  manner  made  the  tears 
spring  to  Barbara's  eyes. 

"What  does  it  matter  what  you  get,  Dad?"  she 
said  impulsively.  "You  are  releasing  a  man  to  fight 
for  England." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson,  "but  I 
do  think  something  better  might  have  been  found  for 
you,  Sam.  So  many  friends  as  you  have  in  the  town." 

Mr.  Simpson  hesitated,  turning  from  his  wife  in  her 
nervous  agitation  to  his  two  daughters,  who  gazed 
intently  at  him,  anxious  and  bright-eyed;  then  he 
answered  reluctantly — 

"I  didn't  say  anything  before.  I  thought  I'd  wait 
until  I  had  something  to  tell.  But  I  have  been  to  a 
score  of  offices  in  Flodmouth."  He  paused,  and  added 
with  difficulty,  looking  down  at  the  carpet :  "It  wasn't 
easy  .  .  .  old  friends  .  .  .  cap  in  hand  .  .  .  and  me 
used  to  taking  my  place.  .  .  ."  He  paused  once  more. 
"Having  had  a  business  of  your  own  goes  against 
you.  Men  are  afraid  you  won't  stand  being  ordered 
about." 


LITTLE  WHEELS  WITHIN  WHEELS    81 

There  was  a  short  silence.    Then  Barbara  said — 

"But  Mr.  Binny  knows  you  so  well.  Did  you  try 
him?" 

"Yes.  I  went  to  him  yesterday.  I  kept  him  for 
the  last  because  I  didn't  like  .  .  .  our  being  so  inti- 
mate and  all  ...  I  knew  he'd  make  a  berth  for  me 
if  he  could." 

"And  didn't  he?  Oh,  you  never  mean  to  say  old 
Binny  turned  you  down?"  cried  Elsie;  and,  pale  with 
vicarious  hurt  pride  and  a  deeper  love  for  her  father 
than  she  had  been  conscious  'of  before,  she  flung  her 
arms  about  him  and  half-strangled  him  in  a  sudden 
embrace.  "Oh,  the  pig!"  she  sobbed.  "Oh,  the  long- 
legged,  shiny-booted,  mean-spirited  old  pig !  I  do  wish 
I  had  him  here !" 

Mr.  Simpson  chuckled,  genuinely  this  time,  and 
disengaged  himself;  the  odious  tension  of  the  interview 
was  relieved. 

"Come!  Come!  I  dare  say  he  would  wish  the 
same — and  you  can't  blame  a  chap  for  being  particular 
about  his  boots,  Elsie." 

"Yes,  I  can.  .  .  .  And  always  a  grey  tie  matching 
his  suit  .  .  .  and  England's  righting  for  life." 

"You  do  Binny  an  injustice,  Elsie,"  said  Mr.  Simp- 
son. "He  is  doing  badly  in  his  business  and  is  over- 
worked, besides  giving  away  every  penny  he  can  spare. 
Why  has  he  gone  without  a  holiday  since  the  out- 
break of  war,  do  you  think?  And  why  has  he  given 
up  golf?  And  why  doesn't  he  get  home  most  nights 
until  seven  or  eight  o'clock?  You  don't  imagine  he 
does  it  for  fun?" 

"Well,  he  never  says  anything.  He  seems  jolly 
enough,"  said  Barbara. 


82  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

Elsie  turned  round  on  her  sister  with  one  of  the 
quick  changes  of  mood  that  her  elders  found  trying. 

"Don't  we  all  ?"  she  retorted.  "Goodness,  isn't  that 
what  we're  all  doing  from  morning  to  night — keeping 
it  up  and  saying  nothing?" 

"But  about  the  job,  Father?"  said  Barbara,  letting 
that  go  as  one  of  Elsie's  flings.  "What  did  Mr.  Binny 
say  to  you  ?" 

"Well,  he  offered  to  take  me  on,  as  I  thought  he 
would,"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  with  a  return  of  his  former 
uneasiness.  "Afterwards,  when  I  walked  home  up 
the  Avenue,  I  thought  I  ought  to  have  taken  it.  But 
when  I  was  coming  out  of  his  office,  I  couldn't  help 
saying  to  him :  'Now,  Binny,  do  you  really  want  me, 
or  are  you  doing  this  out  of  friendship?  For  it  seems 
to  me  a  girl  typist  on  twenty-five  bob  a  week  would 
suit  your  purpose  better  than  I  should/  He  said: 
'No/  but  I  could  see  he  agreed  with  me,  though  he 
tried  to  argue  otherwise.  So  I  couldn't  go  in  with  it 
after  that.  I  know  I  ought  to  have  done.  It  was  all 
my  silly  pride.  But  at  the  moment  I  somehow 
couldn't" 

"Of  course  not,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson,  but  only 
half-heartedly,  for  the  future  loomed  steeply  in  front 
of  her  and  her  nerves  were  all  unstrung. 

Barbara,  however,  was  still  full  of  the  vigour  of 
youth,  and  she  added  emphatically — 

"I  should  have  done  just  the  same.  And  so  would 
Elsie.  Wouldn't  you,  Elsie?" 

"I  should,"  said  Elsie.  "I  couldn't  go  where  I 
wasn't  wanted — not  even  if  it  was  to  heaven.  I'd 
say:  'All  right,  I'll  go  to  hell!'  I  used  to  feel  like 
that  when  Mrs.  Wilson  said  little  girls  that  made  faces 


LITTLE  WHEELS  WITHIN  WHEELS    83 

would  never  go  to  heaven.  I  couldn't  help  making 
faces:  they  made  themselves."  And  with  the  un- 
wonted excitement  her  mouth  did  indeed  begin  to 
twitch  a  little  as  it  had  done  in  the  days  of  her  early 
childhood. 

At  once  Mrs.  Simpson  rose  from  her  chair  and 
threw  off  her  apathetic  sadness. 

"Of  course,  you  acted  for  the  best,  Sam,"  she 
remarked  quite  briskly.  "And  as  Barbara  says,  you 
are  releasing  a  man  for  service.  Besides,  thirty  shil- 
lings a  week  will  be  a  very  great  help." 

"Better  than  nothing,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Simpson 
once  again,  but  without  conviction. 

"Many  a  working-man  has  to  live  on  it,"  said 
Barbara.  "It  will  just  make  all  the  difference  to  us." 

"Well  .  .  .  when  you  come  to  think  .  .  ."  said 
Mr.  Simpson.  And  he  allowed  himself  gradually  to 
be  persuaded  in  the  direction  where  his  ever  sanguine 
thoughts  were  so  anxious  to  go,  until  when  they  finally 
sat  down  to  a  dinner  of  stewed  beef  and  beans — a 
great  many  beans  and  a  very  little  beef — he  was  in  a 
position  to  revive  a  prehistoric  joke  told  him  by  his 
grandfather,  about  a  soupe  de  bouillon  which  consisted 
of  one  bucket  of  water  and  one  onion. 

"It's  only  the  sugar  that  really  bothers  me,"  said 
housekeeper  Barbara,  taking  the  matter  seriously. 

"Sugar!  I'm  sick  of  sugar-talk,"  said  Elsie.  "You 
should  see  old  Barbie  nid-nodding  and  talking  with  all 
the  old  girls  in  the  street  about  it  when  she  goes  out 
shopping.  I  believe  when  the  war  is  over  the  word 
'Sugar'  will  be  found  written  on  the  hearts  of  the 
women  of  England  like  Calais  on  Queen  Mary's." 


84 THE  SILENT  LEGION" 

"Barbara  does  splendidly/'  said  Mr.  Simpson. 
"Never  fed  better  in  my  life.'* 

But  after  luncheon,  when  \ie  awakened  from  his 
mid-day  nap,  his  digestive  organs  protested  that  they, 
at  any  rate,  were  not  going  to  accept  substitutes  with- 
out a  struggle.  He  bore  this  manfully,  and  it  was  only 
when  a  very  superior  lady,  in  a  Sunday  newspaper, 
deplored  all  the  talk  about  food  from  a  high  altitude 
of  not  caring,  that  he  did,  in  common  with  a  good 
many  other  middle-class  people  on  the  following  Sun- 
day afternoon,  feel  as  a  martyr  might  if  somebody 
tried  to  snatch  his  halo. 

Miss  Felling  was  in  the  same  case,  having  since 
childhood  loathed  porridge  for  breakfast,  yet  now  she 
gulped  it  down  with  a  heaving  sensation  in  her  stom- 
ach and  an  endeavour  to  sing  "Rule,  Britannia!"  at 
the  same  time  in  her  soul :  not  a  very  easy  feat,  but  one 
she  performed  successfully  almost  every  day. 

As  Mr.  Simpson  looked  at  Miss  Felling's  house  on 
this  particular  Saturday  afternoon,  he  thought  of  his 
conversation  with  Binny,  and  was  interested  to  see 
little  Kitchener  being  brought  up  the  Avenue  in  the 
arms  of  the  porter's  wife.  Cries  shortly  floated 
through  an  open  window,  and  Miss  Felling  could  be 
seen  dancing  the  baby  up  and  down;  then  the  porter's 
wife  hurried  out  as  if  it  were  a  busy  day  at  home  and 
she  full  of  urgent  affairs.  After  that  there  came  an 
interval,  punctuated  by  sudden  cries  which  were  mys- 
teriously stilled,  and  at  last  a  soldier  in  blue  hospital 
uniform  came  down  the  street.  Mr.  Simpson  called 
out  through  the  doorway  behind  him — 

"Barbara !    Here's  your  soldier  turned  up  again !" 


LITTLE  WHEELS  WITHIN  WHEELS    85 

"Has  he?"  Barbara  came  running.  "I  knew  he 
would,"  she  said,  standing  by  her  father  at  the  window. 

Miss  Felling's  front  door  opened  and  shut:  then 
Brooke's  lined  face  and  very  bright,  dark  eyes  and 
white  teeth  appeared  beside  little  Kitchener's  in  the 
window. 

"They've  a  look  of  each  other,  even  at  this  distance," 
said  Mr.  Simpson,  adjusting  his  spectacles. 

"The  eyes,  perhaps,"  said  Barbara. 

"Well — can't  be  the  teeth,"  said  Mr.  Simpson, 
chuckling  as  he  turned  away  from  the  window. 

The  group  opposite  also  disappeared  into  the  interior 
of  the  room.  Mr.  Simpson  went  into  the  garden. 
Elsie  came  slowly  through  the  door,  looking  pale  and 
pinched. 

"Head  bad?"  said  Barbara. 

"Um,"  said  Elsie,  then  she  added  sharply,  "What 
on  earth  are  you  waiting  there  for  ?  Want  to  see  Miss 
Felling's  soldier  come  out?" 

"No.  I'm  waiting  for  Dorothy  Bellerby,"  said 
Barbara.  "I  promised  to  go  for  a  walk  with  her." 

"But  you  don't  like  her,"  protested  Elsie. 

"I  know  I  don't  very  much;  but  Mrs.  Bellerby  has 
been  so  kind  in  bringing  flowers  and  fruit  for  Mother," 
said  Barbara. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Elsie,  mimicking  Mrs.  Bellerby's 
over-refined  way  of  speaking :  "  'My  dear  daughter 
sent  these  from  her  mother-in-law's  place  in  the  Mid- 
lands. Really  a  mansion,  with  a  park  and  acres  of 
greenhouses.  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Simpson,  we  had 
no  idea  of  his  prospects  until  after  they  became  en- 
gaged. But  an  innocent  girl's  heart  is  her  best  guide. 
Don't  you  agree  with  me?'  Oh,  it  makes  me  sick!" 


86  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

Barbara  laughed. 

"Anyway,  Mother  enjoyed  the  grapes;  and  it  is 
kind  of  them  to  think  of  her." 

"Barbara,"  said  Elsie,  fixing  her  sister  with  solemn 
eyes^"do  you  know  what  will  happen  to  you  one  of 
these  fine  mornings?  You'll  wake  up  to  find  yourself 
married  to  a  man  you  don't  care  tuppence  about  be- 
cause you've  slid  into  it  through  being  grateful  to  him 
for  being  kind:  just  as  you've  slid  into  a  friendship 
with  Dorothy,  whom  you  don't  care  for  a  bit.  Now 
I  wouldn't  be  friends  with  anybody  I  didn't  really  like, 
not  if  they  bu'sted  themselves  up  with  being  kind. 
It's  me  liking  them — I  don't  care  what  they  do." 

"Oh,  you're  a  clever  one,  you  are,"  said  Barbara 
easily.  "Well,  Mother,  rested?" 

"Yes,  dear.  By  the  way,  Father  met  Frank  Gar- 
ret in  the  train  this  morning,  and  he  asked  after  us 
all." 

"Very  kind,"  murmured  Barbara,  flushing. 

"Kind !  There  you  are  again,"  said  Elsie.  "Mother, 
if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  have  him  hanging  round 
Barbara  any  more.  She  doesn't  want  him,  but  he'll 
keep  her  from  wanting  anybody  else." 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  So  Mrs.  Simpson 
dismissed  her,  smiling.  "Going  for  a  walk,  Barbara  ?" 

But  Elsie  interposed  in  a  burst  of  shrill  impatience : 
"Yes,  you  may  smile,  and  you  may  smile,  but  you'll 
smile  on  the  other  side  of  your  face  when  Barbara  gets 
to  be  a  discontented  old  maid  with  a  red  nose  like 
Miss  Felling,  and  you've  done  it.  You  and  Father 
ought  to  have  nipped  Frank  Garret  in  the  bud.  You 
let  him  dangle  too  long." 

There  was  a  sufficient  element  of  truth  in  this  tirade 


LITTLE  WHEELS  WITHIN  WHEELS    87 

to  chime  rather  unpleasantly  with  the  reproaches  of 
Mrs.  Simpson's  own  conscience.  She  ought  to  have 
interfered;  but  that  exquisite  timidity  which  hedged 
her  round  had  made  her  hesitate  to  brush  the  bloom 
off  anything  so  lovely  and  unconscious  as  her  young 
daughter's  first  love.  This  excuse,  however,  naturally 
did  not  occur  to  her  now,  and  she  felt  only  that  she 
had  failed  in  her  duty  as  a  mother — the  sort  of  Mother 
constantly  mentioned  by  Mrs.  Wilson  with  a  capital 
"M."  So  she  sighed  and  sat  down,  saying  nothing: 
a  most  sure  way  of  bringing  her  youngest  daughter 
to  repentance. 

"There!"  exclaimed  Elsie  impulsively.  "Now  I've 
been  horrid  again.  After  all  the  vows  I  made  to 
myself  last  night.  It  almost  seems  as  if  the  more 
vows  I  make  the  worse  I  am.  But  indeed  and  indeed, 
I  only  went  on  like  this  because  I  want  dear  old  Bar- 
bara to  have  what  she  wants — not  what  wants  her — 
and  she's  a  wobbler." 

With  that  she  flung  out  of  the  door,  leaving  Mrs. 
Simpson  to  remark  hesitatingly — 

"You  are  sure  you  don't  regret  having  refused 
Frank  Garret,  dear?" 

"Oh!"  cried  Barbara,  half -laughing,  half-exasper- 
ated. "You'll  make  me  wish  I  were  back  in  Bourne- 
mouth again,  Mother.  At  least,  nobody  was  there  to 
keep  a  constant  eye  on  the  barometer  of  my  affections. 
Fair!  Set  fair!  Changeable!  And  you  and  Father  and 
Elsie  standing  round  and  tapping.  You  make  me  feel 
crowded !" 

At  that  moment,  however,  Dorothy  came  up  the  lit- 
tle path,  and  Barbara  ran  out,  all  unaware  how  vividly 
to  every  last  detail  that  scene  would  come  back  to  her 


THE  SILENT  LEGION 


in  later  life,  and  how  dear  would  seem  the  surround- 
ing love  and  care  which  she  now  resented. 

Mrs.  Simpson  took  up  her  knitting  resolutely  and 
steadied  her  lips  from  trembling:  her  heart  fought 
har^  during  the  next  half-hour  against  that  realisation 
of  separateness  which  it  takes  a  mother  such  a  long 
jtime  to  learn — and  then  she  does  not  learn  it.  She 
looks  forward  to  a  future  when  her  daughter  will  feel 
as  she  does  then,  and  understand. 

Perhaps  the  smell  of  orange-blossom  from  the  war 
wedding  still  lingered  about  the  Avenue,  or  perhaps 
it  was  that  a  rather  mangy  syringa  in  bloom  behind 
Mr.  Binny's  house  gave  out  wafts  of  fragrance  which 
led  the  thoughts  unconsciously  in  the  direction  of 
romance.  Anyway  on  that  Saturday  afternoon  little 
Mrs.  Du  Caine  at  the  end  of  the  street — thinking  of 
past  happy  Saturdays — wrote  in  her  letter  to  her  hus- 
band :  "Do  you  remember  that  old  inn  on  our  honey- 
moon with  the  syringa  under  the  window?  I  smelt 
some  somewhere  about  to-day.  We'll  have  another 
honeymoon  there  when  the  war  is  over,  won't  we, 
dear  ?"  While  Mr.  Binny,  nearest  to  the  bush  and  en- 
gaged in  digging  new  potatoes,  was  inspired  to  put 
the  best  in  a  basket  as  an  offering  for  Miss  Felling. 

It  was  no  doubt  the  soft,  sunny  haze  and  the  scent 
of  the  syringa  which  inspired  him  as  he  carefully 
chose  and  cleaned  the  potatoes.  With  a  certain  sense 
of  adventure,  he  washed  his  hands  energetically  for  a 
long  time — washing  being  a  sort  of  passion  with  him — 
and  thus  fortified  he  took  his  basket  and  knocked  at 
Miss  Felling's  door.  She  opened  it  herself,  and  her 
nose  \vas  redder  than  usual,  having  recently  suffered 


LITTLE  WHEELS  WITHIN  WHEELS    89 

from  too  much  of  little  Kitchener's  attention;  but 
Mr.  Binny  had  come  up  the  path  on  a  strong  tide  of 
feeling,  and  was  not  going  to  let  himself  be  baulked 
by  a  small  check  now. 

"Are  you — are  you  at  home?"  he  said,  idiotically 
and  rather  breathlessly. 

But  Miss  Felling,  like  the  rest  of  the  human  race, 
was  unaware  of  the  important  happenings  concerning 
herself  which  were  going  on  a  few  feet  away  from  her 
in  another  person's  mind.  She  simply  saw  that  Mr. 
Binny  was  a  little  agitated  about  something,  and 
the  dustman  at  once  occurred  to  her.  The  man  had 
been  very  tiresome  last  week,  and  had  declined  to  take 
meat  tins  and  old  bottles.  So  she  introduced  this 
subject  at  once,  after  explaining  that  she  awaited  the 
return  of  Gladys,  who  was  fetching  the  porter's  wife 
and  the  perambulator. 

"There!  There!"  she  said,  soothing  the  restive 
child  against  her  grey  blouse  in  an  awkward  fashion, 
but  thereby  somehow  raising  Mr.  Binny's  feelings  to 
a  still  more  adventurous  height.  He  touched  the  tiny 
fat  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Seems  a  bright  little  chap,"  he  murmured,  having 
abruptly  closed  the  subject  of  the  dustman.  "I  hear 
his — er — uncle  has  taken  over  the  responsibility  of 
bringing  him  up.  Very  creditable !  Very  creditable !" 

"Yes;  Mr.  Brooke  has  just  been  to  see  the  child, 
and  we  have  got  everything  satisfactorily  settled.  I 
must  confess  I  think  he  has  behaved  splendidly,"  said 
Miss  Felling. 

"Nice  little  thing,"  said  Mr.  Binny,  abstractedly 
adjusting  his  eye-glasses  and  bestowing  on  the  hand 
on  Miss  Felling's  shoulder  such  a  chilly  and  ill-prac- 


90 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

tised  kiss  that  little  Kitchener,  who  was  a  connoisseur, 
naturally  resented  it  by  kicking  violently  and  bursting 
into  a  howl. 

"Hush !     Hush !"  soothed  Miss  Felling. 

"Yah-ooh !"  wept  little  Kitchener. 

"Come!  Come!"  urged  Mr.  Binny  gingerly,  touch- 
ing a  waving  foot. 

It  was  a  touching  domestic  scene.  But  little 
Kitchener,  with  the  reckless  selfishness  of  youth,  spoilt 
it  all  by  suddenly  grabbing  Miss  Felling's  nose  and 
glaring  round  at  Mr.  Binny.  This  was  his  nose.  Let 
Mr.  Binny  go  to  a  place  of  sour  bottles  and  disregarded 
pins! 

Mr.  Binny  fell  back  a  few  paces. 

"Queer  little  fellow!"  he  said,  smiling;  but  it  was, 
in  a  sense,  a  smile  of  agony.  For  he  felt  once  more 
that  he  simply  couldn't  do  it;  and  yet  he  had  a  great 
need  of  Miss  Felling  in  his  life. 

Very  soon  he  went  away,  feeling  lonely  and  old  and 
rather  ashamed  of  himself;  but  he  decided  not  to  try 
any  more. 

After  a  while  the  porter's  wife  wheeled  little 
Kitchener  down  the  street,  and  it  did  seem  quite  in- 
credible that  such  an  atom  of  humanity  should  already 
have  influenced  the  destiny  of  two  sensible,  middle- 
aged  people  in  Chestnut  Avenue. 

Mr.  Binny  turned  from  the  window,  lit  his  pipe  and 
sat  down  in  the  easy  chair.  After  all,  a  pipe  was  a 
great  comfort. 


CHAPTER  VI 

PICTURES 

ON  Monday,  about  a  quarter  to  three  in  the  after- 
noon, Barbara  stood  by  the  looking-glass  putting 
on  her  hat  to  go  out  shopping.  Elsie  lay  on  the  bed. 
Shadows  from  the  dancing  leaves  of  the  plane-tree 
moved  about  on  the  flowery  chintz  wall-paper.  A  dull 
quiet  lay  upon  the  Avenue,  with  the  sounds  of  Flod- 
mouth  breaking  beyond  like  the  tide  in  a  forgotten 
cave. 

"Oh  dear!"  said  Elsie.  "I  wish  I  had  something 
really  jolly  to  do,  don't  you?  It's  simply  rotten  going 
on  like  this." 

"Well "  Suddenly  Barbara  herself  was  con- 
scious of  a  keen  reaction  against  the  daily  round  of 
small  economies  and  hard  work  with  no  glory  attached. 
But  she  answered  mechanically:  "It's  a  shame  to 
grumble  when  you  think " 

"Oh,  I  know!  Same  old  tale — remember  the  poor 
lads  in  the  trenches,"  interrupted  Elsie  petulantly. 
"Well,  I  do.  That's  just  what  I  do  do.  I'm— I'm 
worn  out  with  remembering.  It's  like  a  sort  of  tooth- 
ache that  goes  off  a  bit  and  lets  you  feel  almost  perky 
and  then — grind  it  goes  again.  Oh  dear!" 

Barbara  took  up  her  gloves. 

"Poor  old  Elsie !  It's  very  hard  for  those  who  can't 

91 


92  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

work  in  this  war-time.  I  don't  know  how  I  should 
live."  .  .  .  She  kissed  the  little  narrow  face.  "You're 
so  much  better  for  the  rest  from  school,  though;  and 
just  think  of  the  years  you  have  before  you  to  do  all 
sorts  of  wonderful  things  in." 

"I  know  I'm  a  beast,"  said  Elsie;  "but  I  do  feel 
as  if  I  wanted  a  bit  of  real  fun  with  nothing  dragging 
at  me  from  behind.  You  understand  what  I  mean?" 

Barbara  understood  very  well  on  that  greyish  golden 
afternoon;  still  she  had  to  put  up  that  barrier  which 
those  who  live  together  erect  in  unconscious  defence 
of  their  souls'  privacy;  so  she  only  replied — 

"I'll  change  your  book  at  the  Library;  they  may 
have  got  the  one  you  want  in  by  now." 

And  ten  minutes  later  she  was  walking  down  the 
wide  road  leading  into  the  city.  Trams  clashed  and 
jangled :  clear-eyed  sailors  with  the  tan  on  their  faces 
from  that  wonderful,  silent  watch  on  the  North  Sea 
stepped  nimbly  along  in  gold-laced  uniforms;  a  squad 
of  soldiers  tramped  by  the  edge  of  the  curb.  .  .  . 
"  'Nother  little  drink,  'nother  little  drink,  'nother  little 
drink  wone  do  usennyarm"  .  .  .  singing  squalid  songs 
to  the  deathless  tune  of  glory  and  sacrifice.  The  same 
queer  British  instinct  to  hide  the  best  was  causing 
two  sailors  behind  Barbara  to  tell  their  girls  tales 
of  practical  jokes,  leaving  out  all  mention  of  the 
storms  and  hardships  and  nerve-racking,  ceaseless 
vigilance. 

At  the  corner  was  a  great  Cinema  Palace,  like  a 
scullery-maid's  dream  of  the  heavenly  mansions;  and 
near  it,  hovering  before  a  picture  in  the  doorway,  stood 
the  guardian  of  little  Kitchener.  He  loitered  slowly, 
his  ill-fitting  blue  clothes  hanging  loosely  on  his  thin 


PICTURES  93 


limbs;  and  in  spite  of  his  virility  there  was  something 
rather  forlorn  and  wistful  in  his  'attitude,  Barbara 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  went  up  behind  him. 

"Well?  Wondering  whether  you  should  go  in  or 
not?"  she  said  pleasantly. 

He  swung  round  and  she  was  struck  afresh  by  the 
extraordinary  keenness  and  brightness  of  his  eyes  and 
the  whiteness  of  his  teeth  in  his  dark,  scarred,  weather- 
beaten  face.  It  seemed  ridiculous,  but  she  almost  felt 
as  if  some  electric  current  flashed  between  them  in 
that  moment  when  he  swung  round  to  welcome  her. 
It  was  not — she  vaguely  felt — the  ordinary  pleasure 
of  a  lonely  man  in  meeting  a  pretty,  friendly  girl;  it 
was  the  relief  of  a  soul  that  has  wandered  into  those 
lost  places  outside  human  fellowship  whose  mists  breed 
crime  and  suicide. 

Perhaps  at  that  moment  he  had  got  lost  there,  for 
when  men  are  weakened  by  the  long  strain  of  battles 
it  is  a  place  easily  found  and  the  road  may  be  the 
veriest  bypath  ...  a  sudden  gust  of  cold  wind  with 
paper  blowing  in  it  ...  desolation  .  .  .  pain  .  .  . 
And  the  way  out  quickly  before  the  mind's  eye. 

But  immediately  Brooke  said,  smiling — 

"Yes.  I  was  wondering  if  I  should  turn  in.  But 
it's  not  much  fun  going  alone." 

"No."  She  hesitated.  That  craving  for  fun  which 
she  had  felt  before  coming  out  worked  in  her  mind, 
though  she  herself  was  only  conscious  of  a  desire  to 
cheer  a  wounded  soldier.  "Well,  supposing  we  went 
in  together  for  an  hour?  It's  ages  since  I  was  at  the 
pictures." 

"Will  you?"  She  noticed  how  his  face  creased 
round  those  very  bright  eyes  as  he  stood  erect,  smiling 


94 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

at  her.  "I  say,  that  is  jolly  of  you."  Then  his  face 
shadowed  and  he  added  quickly:  "Look  here!  You 
—you  needn't  come  if  it's  inconvenient,  just  because 
you're  sorry  for  me.  I'm  all  right." 

she  laughed,  and  the  slight  awkwardness  and  ten- 
sion about  the  interview  vanished  altogether.  Brooke 
noticed  the  dimple  in  her  cheek  for  the  first  time,  and 
thought  to  himself  that  every  girl  ought  to  have  a 
dimple  like  that. 

Then  she  said  gaily,  for  her  spirits  were  rising: 
"Why  on  earth  should  I  be  sorry  for  you?  You're 
getting  well,  all  right,  and  you  have  light  duty  at 
Search ffe  to  look  forward  to,  and  a  girl  to  go  to  the 
pictures  with :  what  wounded  soldier  wants  more  than 
that?" 

"Well?  I  guess  this  one  doesn't,  anyway,"  said 
Brooke. 

He  led  the  way  in,  and  the  picture  palace  which  had 
before  seemed  dull  and  sordid  to  him  now  appeared 
delightful  and  rather  exciting ;  it  was  such  a  change  as 
comes  to  an  ugly  farm-house  on  a  ridge  when  seen 
against  the  sunrise  .  .  .  Only  Brooke  imagined  that 
he  had  done  with  such  experiences.  He  liked  girls 
— but  he  had  loved  once,  and  that  was  enough.  The 
torture  of  that  experience  left  him  disinclined  for 
any  further  stirring  of  the  depths  of  passion.  He 
knew  the  force  of  his  own  feelings  and  dreaded  it 
instinctively. 

But  he  had  been  so  long  away  from  civilisation, 
first  in  Canada  and  then  in  France,  that  the  whole 
thing  now  seemed  to  him  rather  magical  and  unreal. 
The  girl  attendant  with  her  flashlight,  walking  back- 
wards with  little  curtesying  movements  into  the  gloom, 


PICTURES  95 


was  like  the  attendant  in  some  enchanted  castle.  A 
man  ran  swiftly  across  the  screen  ...  a  tiger  .  .  . 
the  empty  jungle  .  .  .  elephants  with  howdahs  rock- 
ing. .  .  . 

Of  course  it  was  an  ordinary  film  of  a  tiger  hunt, 
but  something  of  the  toil  and  wonder  of  the  forces  of 
Nature  which  had  been  chained  to  produce  it  thrilled 
Barbara  and  her  companion  as  they  sat  down. 

"Colossal  game  of  tig,  that?"  he  said,  settling  him- 
self into  the  red  velvet  seat.  "The  forfeit  either  the 
man  or  the  tiger." 

"Yes.  So  you  play  tig  out  in  Canada?"  said  Bar- 
bara letting  the  words  ripple  forth  as  they  came  into 
her  head:  it  did  not  seem  to  matter  what  she  said 
in  that  soft  darkness  because  she  felt — though  she  was 
not  aware  of  feeling — that  the  words  themselves  did 
not  matter. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  Not  many  children  about 
where  I  was."  He  leaned  just  a  little  nearer.  "I  re- 
member how  we  used  to  play  tig  at  home  when  we 
were  kids.  At  school-treats  especially.  My  mother 
used  to  get  tired  and  go  home  and  it  turned  hazy  over 
the  fields.  .  .  .  The  trees  felt  damp  when  you  touched 
them."  .  .  . 

He  talked  on  in  a  constant  stream,  seized  with  that 
strange  garrulousness  which  sometimes  attacks  re- 
served and  lonely  people  in  the  presence  of  strangers 
who  are  sympathetic  to  them.  He  told  Barbara  all 
sorts  of  trifles  about  his  early  life  and  the  old  home 
which  he  would  have  thought  an  hour  before  to  have 
been  absolutely  forgotten.  A  thousand  others  welled 
up  in  his  memory  too  fast  to  be  given  out;  how  his 
mother  looked  when  she  sat  at  the  evening  meal  in 


96  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

the  low  Vicarage  room  with  its  three  windows  facing 
the  garden;  the  shadow  of  his  father's  head  on  the 
wall  behind  the  pulpit  on  summer  nights  when  the 
candles  were  lighted  and  there  was  sunset  still  through 
the  west-window;  the  sound  of  the  old  parish  clerk's 
A-a-men!  at  the  end  of  the  service. 

And  now  here  was  Barbara's  clear  voice  close  to  his 
ear.  "How  you  must  have  loved  your  home.  Were 
you  very  lonely  out  in  Canada  after  ...  I  mean  when 
you  lived  alone?" 

"Oh,  I  rubbed  along  all  right."  He  roused  him- 
self, wondering.  "  'Fraid  I  must  have  bored  you  aw- 
fully, Miss  Simpson." 

"No — no!    And  I  like  hearing  about  Canada." 

"Well,  I  suppose  everybody  gets  a  bit  lonely  at 
times.  You  say  to  yourself  on  winter  nights  when  the 
chores  are  all  done:  'I  wonder  what  they're  doing  at 
home  to-night?'  And  you  picture  them  sitting  round. 
But  very  likely  they're  doing  something  quite  differ- 
ent." And  he  laughed,  beckoning  the  chocolate  girl. 

But  Barbara's  quick  mind  responded  again  to  what 
was  behind  the  words.  She  heard  in  this  garish  hall 
filled  now  with  a  soft  darkness  the  eternal  chanting 
of  that  wistful  chorus  which  sounds  from  all  the  lonely 
places  in  the  world:  "I  wonder  what  they're  doing  at 
home  to-night!"  In  her  sudden  rush  of  warm  desire 
to  comfort  every  one  of  them  she  moved  a  little  closer 
to  Brooke,  saying  eagerly — 

"But  it's  so  glorious  to  be  a  pioneer.  It's  the  grand- 
est fight  there  is — a  man  fighting  Nature  for  a  liv- 
ing :  and  tKati  won't  stop  whatever  they  manage  to  do 
about  the  other  kind  of  war.  It's  bound  to  go  on  while 
the  world  lasts.  You  can  put  your  whole  life  and  soul 


PICTURES  97 


into  learning  how  to  continue  that  fight,  and  feel  it 
will  always  be  worth  while." 

"Think  so  ?"  he  said  casually.  But  his  arm  touched 
hers  in  the  dark,  while  a  deep  sense  of  companionship 
after  long  loneliness  pervaded  his  being — nothing  more 
as  yet:  and  the  pictures  slipped  quickly  along  before 
their  eyes,  making  the  pause  natural.  "I  say — you'd 
be  the  right  sort  for  a  colonist's  wife." 

Again  silence  between  them,  and  the  warm  darkness : 
a  man  mouthing  and  gesticulating  on  the  screen  .  .  . 
an  unnameable,  delicate  thrill  going  in  from  one  to  the 
other  which  was  not  passion,  but  bore  the  same  relation 
to  it  that  the  first  stirring  of  the  dawn  wind  in  the 
dark  bears  to  the  dawn. 

"Wonderful  how  they  get  these  films !"  He  bent  his 
head  sideways,  speaking  in  her  ear,  but  his  coat-sleeve 
scarcely  touched  her  blouse — he  would  not  have 
pressed  coarsely  upon  her  for  the  world. 

"Wonderful!" 

Instinct  was  also  alive  in  her  as  she  felt  the  light 
touch  of  the  cloth  through  her  thin  sleeve,  though  her 
mind  feigned  cool  aloofness  and  would  know  nothing 
of  it.  But  she  suddenly  grew  rather  afraid  of  that 
warm  darkness  which  enveloped  them,  and  jerked  out 
mechanically:  "Do  you  intend  to  go  back  to  Canada 
after  the  war?" 

"Oh !    After  the  war !"  he  echoed. 

And  a  further  echo  of  that  phrase  seemed  to  go  on 
and  on  interminably,  dying  at  last  into  a  silence  which 
was  only  a  sign  that  it  was  still  travelling. 

"Yes."  Barbara  paused;  she  too  listened  to  that 
empty  echoing.  "You  feel  like  that.  It's  no  use  plan- 


98  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

ning.  You  only  get  upset  if  you  try.  The  only  thing 
is  just  to  live  from  day  to  day." 

They  ceased  talking  again,  their  minds  hanging  on 
to  that.  ...  A  fat  man  climbed  up  a  ladder;  two 
lovers  came  from  behind  a  yew-hedge  and  kissed  in  the 
sunshine;  three  girls  ran  out  laughing,  with  roses  in 
their  hands.  .  .  . 

"Looks  jolly,  eh?     Nice  even  to  see  a  bit  of  fun." 

Barbara  nodded,  and  a  fierce  reaction  of  youth 
against  the  tremendous  pressure  of  suspense  and  pain 
and  sorrow  took  hold  of  her. 

"I  didn't  mind  having  no  fun  when  I  was  working 
in  the  hospital,"  she  said  abruptly,  eagerly.  "But  I'm 
simply  fed  up  with  being  general  servant  at  home. 
All  the  other  girls  are  doing  something  that  really  mat- 
ters and  here  am  I  ...  I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't  bear 
it  any  longer." 

"It's  a  grand  thing,  making  a  home  though,"  he 
said. 

"Grand!  That's  all  you  know."  She  sighed. 
"However,  Mother  is  ill,  Elsie  delicate,  and  Father's 
business  is  closed  down,  so  I  have  no  choice,  of 
course." 

He  cleared  his  throat,  staring  at  the  pictures;  then 
said :  "Plenty  would  have  done  differently." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Barbara,  but  the  very 
absence  of  glibness  in  his  words  carried  conviction,  and 
she  felt  warmed  and  heartened  in  her  turn  as  he  had 
been  earlier  in  the  conversation.  They  sat  together  in 
an  atmosphere  of  mutual  appreciation  that  made  lik- 
ing grow  very  rapidly  indeed. 

"I  must  go  after  this,"  she  said,  all  at  once  aware 
of  something  getting  ahead  of  her  that  she  must  arrest 


PICTURES  99 


for  a  while  until  she  had  considered  it;  "my  people 
will  wonder  where  I  am." 

"Oh  come!  You'll  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  me? 
Shame  to  spoil  such  a  kind  deed  by  half-doing  it,"  he 
urged. 

She  was  silent  a  moment  or  two.  .  .  .  The  fat  man 
on  the  screen  came  down  the  ladder  and  surprised  the 
lovers.  Comic  business.  Exit  fat  man.  Lovers  hold- 
ing each  other  close  in  the  sunshine.  .  .  . 

"All  right,"  she  said.  "I'll  come  if  you  like.  Only 
you  must  not  expect  much  of  a  tea  in  these  days.  Two- 
ounce  limit,  you  know." 

They  both  laughed,  though  there  was  nothing  to 
laugh  at. 

"I  say,"  he  whispered.  "It's  real  good  of  you. 
You  can't  imagine  what  you  are  doing  for  me.  I've 
been  lonely  enough  out  on  the  prairie;  but  nothing 
to  what  I  was  when  I  came  home  to  England  wounded. 
Most  of  the  men  in  the  hospital  where  I  was  at  first 
had  somebody  to  write  to  them  or  come  and  see  them ; 
but  there  I  lay  with  nobody  to  care  a  damn  whether  I 
got  better  or  I  didn't."  He  paused.  "I  was  weak  and 
run  down,  or  I  shouldn't  have  felt  like  that,  of  course. 
My  sisters  in  Glasgow  did  write  later;  only  they  are 
married  and  naturally  full  of  their  own  concerns." 

The  light  went  up ;  some  sort  of  spell  which  had  lain 
upon  the  place  and  upon  them  was  lifted:  they  were 
already  wondering  at  themselves. 

"If  I  had  known,  I  would  have  written  to  you  in 
hospital,"  said  Barbara  soberly.  "I  would  to  any 
soldier  who  had  nobody." 

"That  is  kind  of  you." 

So  they  talked  during  tea,  rather  stiffly,  and  with  a 


IPO THE  SILENT  LEGION   

sense  of  frustration  and  disappointment  .  .  .  What 
were  they  unconsciously  expecting  that  they  did  not 
get? 

Brooke  blamed  the  band.  Barbara  the  tea-cakes. 
At  last  the  pauses  in  the  conversation — so  different 
from  thosfe  pauses  in  the  Cinema  Hall — became  so  em- 
barrassing that  Barbara  rose  from  the  table. 

"Well,  I  must  be  off  now.    Thank  you  so  much." 

"No,  indeed.    It  is  I  who  have  to  thank  you." 

Brooke  accompanied  her,  and  as  they  walked  the 
odd  sense  of  irritation  began  to  wear  off :  they  found 
themselves  laughing  and  talking  naturally  as  they 
made  their  way  through  the  crowded  streets.  At  the 
door  of  28  Chestnut  Avenue,  however,  Barbara's  self- 
consciousness  again  returned,  and  she  said  nervously, 
holding  out  her  hand — 

"Well,  good-bye.  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  ask  you  in 
to-day,  but  Mother  is  not  very  well.  Do  come  and  see 
us  some  time  before  you  leave." 

"Thank  you.    You  bet  I  shall." 

Their  hands  loosed  and  they  moved  away  from  each 
other,  both  feeling  unwilling  to  part  like  this.  But  all 
the  same  there  seemed  nothing  more  to  say.  Then 
Brooke  saw  Miss  Felling  at  the  opposite  window. 

"I  know  what  I  was  going  to  ask  you,"  he  said 
hastily:  "can  you  suggest  a  toy  for  little  Kitchener? 
He's  not  old  enough  for  a  Teddy  Bear  ?" 

Barbara  came  back  a  few  steps. 

"No.  Oh,  anything  fluffy  and  bright  coloured  that 
makes  a  noise." 

"Sounds  as  if  you  were  describing  a  girl  for  a  sub  on 
leave.  But  I  s'pose  males  go  on  having  the  same  tastes 
in  toys.  .  .  ."  Then  he  did  realise  that  he  was  look- 


PICTURES  101 


ing  at  Barbara's  dimple  and  ceasing  to  talk  sense. 
"Miss  Simpson,  it  would  be  fine  if  you  would  go  with 
me  to  buy  the  toy,"  he  said  directly,  pulling  himself 
together. 

"I  shall  be  shopping  about  eleven,"  she  said.  "I 
may  see  you  in  the  town." 

"I'm  not  sure  if  I  can  get  out,  of  course." 

"No?     Well,  in  case  you  are.  .  .  ." 

"Good-bye." 

They  really  parted  this  time,  and  Barbara  went  up 
the  little  path  into  the  house. 

The  Simpsons  sat  round  the  table  at  their  evening 
meal,  dropping  little  phrases  into  the  silence.  An 
engine  shrieked  at  the  end  of  the  Avenue.  A  local 
evening  paper  lay  across  a  chair  with  the  great  head- 
line "Air-raid  on  London!"  Before  the  meal  was 
quite  finished  Mr.  Simpson  pushed  himself  away  from 
the  table  with  his  great  stomach,  rose,  and  went  out 
of  the  room.  "Going  to  have  a  pipe  in  the  garden," 
he  said. 

Mrs.  Simpson  was  left  with  her  two  daughters  at  the 
table. 

"Has  Father  been  put  out  at  the  office?"  said 
Barbara. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson.  "At  least,  it  is  rather 
trying  to  be  found  fault  with  and  ordered  about  by  a 
man  who  was  an  office  boy  when  he  was  an  articled 
clerk,  of  course.  And  I  think  he  rather  hates  having 
to  click  a  sort  of  thing  when  he  goes  in  and  out,  to 
show  if  he  is  punctual.  But  he  says  it  is  necessary  and 
all  right.  He  doesn't  worry  about  little  things  like 
that,  really." 


102 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Then  what  is  it?"  asked  Barbara. 

"I  believe  it  upsets  him  to  think  of  all  those  children 
being  killed  and  injured  in  the  London  raids,"  said 
Mrs.  Simpson.  "You  know  what  he  is  about  children." 

"It's  all  very  well  you  Balking  about  God  sending 
trouble  and  working  for  the  best,"  said  Elsie,  suddenly 
looking  up  with  her  white  face  from  her  almost  un- 
tasted  meal.  Then  she  flung  across  a  phrase  like  a 
gage :  "I  don't  believe  God  cares  tuppence !" 

"Hush,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson,  "I  know  how  you 
feel,  and  nobody  can  understand  it  all.  We  can  only 
trust  and  leave  it." 

Barbara  glanced  at  her  mother's  white  face  and 
trembling  hands,  and  rose,  taking  a  dish  from  the 
table. 

"This  beef  will  do  for  rissoles  to-morrow,  won't  it?" 
she  said,  frowning  at  Elsie. 

Mrs.  Simpson  put  a  hand  to  her  aching  head. 

"Yes.  Put  plenty  of  lentils  with  it  and  then  there 
will  be  enough.  I  suppose  you  got  the  lentils  this 
afternoon  ?" 

"I  forgot."  Barbara  paused,  fighting  down  her 
odd  disinclination  to  speak  of  Brooke  and  added 
quickly:  "I  met  that  soldier  who  came  about  Lillie's 
baby.  He  was  standing  outside  the  Picture  Palace 
looking  so  awfully  lonely  that  I  went  up  to  him.  I 
felt  sorry."  .  .  . 

A  moment's  pause,  then  Mrs.  Simpson  said — 

"Well,  it  does  seem  hard  that  these  Colonial  soldiers 
should  come  over  to  fight  for  England  and  not  find  a 
friend." 

"That's  how  I  felt,"  said  Barbara  eagerly.  "So 
when  he  asked  me  to  go  with  him  to  the  pictures,  of 


PICTURES  103 


course  I  went.     I  simply  couldn't  refuse,  could  I?" 

"N-no,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson  without  enthusiasm, 
for  after  all  it  was  one  thing  to  wish  to  befriend  all 
Colonial  soldiers  and  quite  another  to  hear  that  a 
cherished  young  daughter  had  been  alone  to  a  Cinema 
Hall  with  tlr  brother  of  a  bigamist  who  had  never 
been  in  the  Colonies  at  all.  "Only  I  should  let  it  end 
there,"  she  added. 

"But  I  didn't!"  cried  Barbara,  disproportionately 
angry  and  moved.  "I  went  to  tea,  too.  And  I'm  very 
glad  I  did."  She  paused  and  added  in  a  burst:  "I 
do  think  you  are  unkind.  What  should  we  have 
thought  if  dear  Jim  had  been  out  in  Canada  and  nice 
girls  there  had  been  'careful'  lest  he  should  contami- 
nate them?" 

Mrs.  Simpson  glanced  searchingly  at  her  daughter  a 
second  and  then  dropped  her  eyes.  She  knew  quite 
well  that  Barbara  would  never  have  brought  Jim 
forward  as  an  argument  unless  she  were  in  some  way 
deeply  moved. 

"You  must  remember  how  badly  Brooke's  brother 
behaved  to  poor  Lillie,  Barbara,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  if  all  the  good  brothers  in 
England  were  tarred  black  to  match  the  bad  ones,  we 
should  see  something  very  queer  indeed.  It's  not  like 
you  to  be  unfair,  Mother." 

Mrs.  Simpson  waited  a  moment,  looking  at  the  table- 
cloth; then  she  smiled  at  her  girl — that  beautiful,  timid 
smile  which  came  straight  from  the  heart. 

"Well,  Barbara,  you  must  do  as  you  think  right.  I 
trust  you.  I  have  always  trusted  you." 

Instantly,  Barbara  blurted  out : 

"I've  promised  to  meet  him  in  the  morning." 


1104  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"I  say,  that  is  going  it,"  said  Elsie  languidly,  rous- 
ing herself  from  her  brooding  silence. 

"It's  only  to  buy  a  toy  for  little  Kitchener,"  said 
Barbara.  "He  didn't  quite  know  what  to  get."  She 
paused  and  added  with  an  effort:  "Do  you  want  me 
not  to?" 

"No,  dear.  As  you  have  promised  you  must  go. 

Only "  Mrs.  Simpson  paused,  looking  at  her 

daughter. 

"It  will  be  all  right,  Mother,"  said  Barbara  impa- 
tiently. "You  take  the  matter  too  seriously.  You 
live  in  such  a  narrow  groove  that  you  don't  understand 
how  men  and  girls  go  about  together  now-a-days  with 
nobody  thinking  anything  at  all  about  it." 

And  as  Mr.  Simpson  came  into  the  room  again  at 
that  moment,  bringing  a  flower  for  his  wife  and  a  new 
joke  about  potatoes,  the  subject  of  Brooke  was  allowed 
to  drop. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SIGNALS 

morning  very  early,  not  long  after  dawn, 
Barbara  awakened  to  hear  the  moving  of 
stealthy  footsteps  in  the  house.  She  immediately 
thought  of  burglars,  because  some  minor  burglaries 
had  taken  place  in  that  part  of  the  city,  and  her  first 
instinct  was  to  prevent  her  mother  from  being  startled. 
So  she  threw  on  a  dressing-gown  and  ran  down  with- 
out waiting  to  think  what  she  would  do  with  the  burg- 
lar if  she  got  him. 

But  the  actual  creak  of  a  board  and  a  faint  clatter 
of  iron  did  give  a  check  to  her  enterprise.  She  crept 
very  softly  indeed  to  the  kitchen  door  with  her  heart 
throbbing  against  her  ribs  and  peered  in.  Then  she 
leaned  for  a  second  against  the  doorpost,  the  colour 
coming  back  into  her  face,  and  said  most  irritably — 

"What  on  earth  is  this?" 

And  indeed  the  black-a-vised  gentleman  who  whirled 
round  to  face  her  with  the  whites  of  his  eyes  rolling 
nigger-wise  in  his  grimy  countenance,  and  a  red  and 
yellowish  bath-towel  tied  round  his  inflated  middle, 
was  sufficiently  unlike  the  ordinary  Mr.  Simpson  of 
Chestnut  Avenue  and  the  Empress  Wharf  to  make  his 
identity  almost  incredible.  He  let  a  blacking-brush 

105 


io6  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

fall  noisily  on  the  fender  and  said  with  the  oddest  mix- 
ture of  caught  guilt  and  defiance — 

"What  are  you  coming  down  now  for?  It  is  not 
time  yet.  I — I  was  just  amusing  myself  blacking  the 
grate."  And  his  tone  plainly  added :  "Can't  a  man 
ever  have  a  little  private  amusement  without  a  lot 
of  females  nosing  round?" 

Barbara  laughed,  but  there  was  a  very  deep  and 
tender  shining  in  those  blue  eyes  behind  the  laughter 
as  she  ran  across  the  kitchen  and  threw  her  arms  round 
him,  grime  and  all. 

"You  silly,  silly  old  Dad!"  she  cried,  kissing  him. 
"Oh,  what  a  horrid  taste  of  soot !  But  you  don't  take 
me  in  with  your  bluster;  you  caught  sight  of  me  doing 
the  grate  yesterday  morning.  I  know  you!" 

"Well,  I  hate  to  see "  Mr.  Simpson  stood  blus- 

teringly  on  the  defensive  again,  blacking-brush  in 
hand. 

"What  nonsense!"  interrupted  Barbara.  "YouVe 
nicked  my  favourite  job.  I  love  doing  grates :  there's 
something  to  show  for  it." 

"Well,  I  think  I  was  getting  on  fairly  well."  He 
surveyed  his  handiwork  with  a  sort  of  proud  humility. 
"Only  it  seems  to  use  rather  a  lot  of  stuff.  I  can't 
help  thinking  it  rather  an  extravagant  method." 

At  this  Barbara  began  to  laugh  again,  but  softly, 
lest  she  should  waken  the  sleepers  upstairs. 

"Oh  dear!  You  don't  know  how  funny  you  look! 
Why,  you've  used  enough  blacklead  to  do  every  grate 
down  one  side  of  Chestnut  Avenue.  You  are  an  old 
Silly  Billy  of  a  father  to  get  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  like  this,  when  you  know  how  your  new  office 
job  takes  it  out  of  you." 


SIGNALS 107 

"I  wouldn't  say  that — nothing  but  ordinary  clerical 
work "  murmured  Mr.  Simpson. 

"I  know  you  wouldn't  say  it,"  retorted  Barbara, 
"but  you  have  done  no  routine  work  of  that  kind  since 
you  were  a  young  man,  and  it  worries  you  having  to  be 
so  accurate  or  get  found  fault  with." 

He  stared  at  her,  oddly  surprised  and  serious  in  his 
queer  garb. 

"How  did  you  know  that  ?" 

"Oh,  clever  girl,  I  am!"  she  said  lightly.  "Now 
go  along  and  wash  your  hands." 

She  drove  him  before  her  into  the  back  kitchen  and 
shut  the  door  lest  sounds  should  be  heard  upstairs. 
In  a  few  minutes  a  little  tin  kettle  boiled  on  the  gas 
ring  and  the  two  laughed  and  whispered  over  their 
cups  of  tea  with  an  odd  sense  of  jollity  and  adventure. 
Barbara  set  wide  the  scullery  door  which  led  to  the 
back  garden  and  the  sweet  freshness  that  comes  with 
early  summer  mornings  even  to  little  town  gardens 
blew  in  upon  them. 

"Bless  me!  I  really  think  this  is  the  best  cup  of 
tea  I  ever  tasted!"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  beaming  upon 
his  daughter  with  a  smeared  but  comparatively  clean 
face.  "I  don't  know  when  I  have  had  such  a  cup 
before." 

"It  tastes  like  that  in  hospital  when  you  have  been 
on  night  duty,"  said  Barbara.  "Oh,  Father,  I  should 
like  to  have  a  statue  erected  in  every  town  in  England 
to  the  man  who  first  thought  of  making  tea-leaves  into 
tea  ...  or  the  first  woman.  I  almost  think  it  must 
have  been  a  woman.  I  can't  understand  why  some 
great  poet  doesn't  write  a  poem  about  tea,  can  you? 
When  you  think  of  all  the  sad  people  it  has  comforted." 


io8  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

Thus  she  ran  on,  while  Mr.  Simpson  drank  with 
relish,  and  thought  nobody  in  the  world  had  such  girls 
as  his  girls.  But  it  was  what  they  did  not  talk  about 
that  touched  them  most,  and  gave  such  an  atmosphere 
of  love  and  laughter  to  the  little  meal. 

For  instance,  Barbara  knew  well  enough  that  her 
father  must  have  been  awake  a  long  time  in  the  night 
before  his  thoughts  culminated  in  a  fierce :  "She  shan't 
blacklead  fire-grates  any  more  if  I  know  it!"  and  a 
descent  in  a  bath-towel. 

And  Mr.  Simpson  kept  to  himself,  mainly  because  he 
was  not  conscious  of  it,  that  ideal  of  the  middle-class 
man  which  is — or  was — to  keep  his  women-folk  in 
idleness.  Such  a  man  would  chain  himself  to  an  office 
desk  for  thirty  years  to  feel  rewarded  in  the  end  if  he 
could  keep  two  servants  instead  of  one,  and  his  wife 
and  daughters  need  not  even  dust  the  drawing-room. 
Part  of  this  was  snobbishness,  and  the  two  maids  a 
sign  of  that  caste  which  these  men  and  their  fathers 
had  worked  and  saved  and  sacrificed  to  gain  or  keep; 
but  the  other  part  was  pure  chivalry — the  unique, 
Anglo-Saxon,  middle-class  sense  of  chivalry  towards 
women,  which  is  not  greater,  perhaps,  but  different 
in  essence  to  any  other. 

Thus  Mr.  Simpson  had  not  stood  for  himself  alone 
as  he  kept  vigil  during  the  previous  night,  but  for  a 
million  other  such  bald-headed,  commonplace,  uncon- 
scious idealists. 

When  Barbara  opened  the  front  door  to  take  in  the 
milk  a  scent  of  flowering  beans  came  down  the  Avenue, 
as  if  some  country  fairies  were  dancing  through  the 
city  and  you  could  smell  their  fragrance  without  seeing 
them.  So  Barbara's  spirits  danced  too,  because  she 


SIGNALS  109 

was  young  and  healthy,  and  also — though  this  went 
unacknowledged — because  she  was  going  to  meet 
Brooke  about  eleven.  A  little  sense  of  change  and 
adventure  came  into  her  dull  life  with  the  thought  of 
him  which  was  very  pleasant;  for  she  missed  the 
emotional  excitement  of  her  relation  with  Frank  Gar- 
ret more  than  she  knew,  though  she  did  not  want 
him  any  longer.  Still  he  had  filled  a  certain  place 
in  her  thoughts  for  so  long  that  she  was  unconsciously 
sensible  of  a  blank;  for  she  was  not,  as  Elsie  might 
probably  become,  a  natural  celibate.  There  was  a  need 
in  her,  fostered  by  Garret's  discreet  love-making  from 
early  girlhood,  which  could  only  be  satisfied  by  her 
mate. 

So  now  she  smiled  at  the  milk-woman,  saying  it  was 
a  lovely  morning,  and  the  little,  oldish,  rosy-faced 
country-woman  smiled  back. 

"Oh  yes;  morning's  all  right.  But  the  price  of  meat 
and  everything!  If  this  goes  on  we  shall  have  to 
have  a  revolution." 

She  said  it  as  casually  as  one  might  say — "We  shall 
have  to  have  a  spring-cleaning" ;  and  went  off  clatter- 
ing her  cans. 

But  Barbara  stood  still  for  a  minute,  looking  after 
her.  It  was  so  odd  to  hear  in  such  a  way  that  terrible 
suggestion  of  blood  and  tears.  The  woman  did  not 
realise  what  her  words  held,  of  course,  but  it  was  a 
startling  sign  of  the  way  in  which  the  tide  passing  over 
Russia  had  eddied  into  the  remotest  little  inlets  of 
Europe.  Barbara  was  vaguely  startled,  as  if  she  had 
come  across  a  child  in  a  buttercup-field  playing  with 
a  live  bomb. 

The  impression  soon  faded  from  her  mind,  however, 


no THE  SILENT  LEGION 

and  she  went  forth  to  do  the  shopping  with  her  basket 
on  her  arm  and  that  high,  unconscious  "God's  in  His 
heaven,  All's  right  with  the  world,"  which  is  the  nat- 
ural morning  mood  of  such  a  girl  as  Barbara,  who 
has  to  spring  up  taut  in  the  sunlight  like  a  flower  on 
the  grassy  side  of  the  road,  whatever  is  going  to  pass 
by  that  day. 

So  freshly  self -poised  did  Barbara  look  to  Brooke 
as  he  watched  her  come  across  the  great  square,  where 
the  tide  of  giving  which  has  swept  across  and  across 
Flodmouth  ever  since  the  outbreak  of  war,  once  more 
caught  the  passers-by  with  little  badges  and  tin  boxes. 
Barbara  put  in  her  coin  like  all  the  rest,  beginning  at 
once  to  plan  what  she  must  go  without  because  she 
had  given  it — just  like  all  the  rest,  too.  Because  that 
is  what  giving  means  now  among  people  such  as  the 
Simpsons. 

Then  she  looked  up  to  see  Brooke's  thin  figure  and 
worn  face  and  his  extraordinary  bright  and  vivid 
glance  seeking  hers — compelling  it.  She  was  keenly 
aware  of  his  alert  gait  which  gave  such  an  impression 
of  unspent  energy,  despite  his  stiff  left  arm. 

"Oh,  lovely  morning,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  isn't  it  glorious?" 

But  the  banality  of  their  greeting  was  all  part  of 
something  so  natural  and  deeply  appropriate  that  they 
remained  unaware  of  it :  indeed,  with  all  due  deference 
to  Milton,  it  seems  likely  that  when  Adam  first  greeted 
Eve  he  said  it  was  a  fine  day  for  the  apple-blossom. 

So  these  two  turned  and  walked  together,  jostled  by 
soldiers  and  sailors  and  women  hurrying  for  the  cars. 
Brooke  was  rather  silent,  trying  to  put  a  strong  curb 
on  his  excitement,  for  he  was  conscious  of  the  folly 


SIGNALS 111 

of  feeling  like  this  about  a  girl  whom  he  had  only  seen 
twice,  and  who  might  vanish  out  of  his  life  at  any 
moment.  It  seemed  to  him  like  one  of  those  sudden 
gusts  of  passion  for  a  girl's  face  on  the  stage  or  at  a 
window  which  he  had  always  viewed  in  other  men  with 
tolerant  contempt,  not  giving  it  the  name  of  love. 
But  he  could  not  help  rejoicing  in  her  nearness  all  the 
time,  even  while  he  remained  outwardly  dull  and  un- 
interested. 

j  And  Barbara's  gay  morning  mood  shone  back  re- 
sponsive to  what  he  felt,  not  to  what  he  said.  The  old 
bridge  and  the  gay  streets  became  so  a-sparkle  with 
the  joyousness  of  these  young  people  that  they  saw 
everything  glorified — the  very  trams  rushing  along  in 
happy  haste  to  reach  the  busy,  opalescent  river.  Clang ! 
Clang!  went  the  hideous  car-bell,  seeming  to  them 
but  an  urgent  call  to  passers-by  to  go  about  some  merry 
business.  The  noises  of  Flodmouth  sounded  nearer 
and  richer  and  more  home-like  to  Barbara  than  they 
had  ever  done  before,  though  she  was  not  conscious 
of  hearing  them.  It  was  like  that  moment  in  an  opera 
when  the  orchestra  is  working  up  to  a  climax.  She 
was — unknown  to  herself — filled  with  a  tremendous 
sense  of  expectation. 

"Market-day.  Lot  of  people,"  said  Brooke,  but 
he  really  felt  himself  to  be  shouting  aloud:  "I  say, 
isn't  it  a  lark  to  be  alive  ?  Isn't  it  a  lark  for  us  to  be 
alive  together,  whatever  happens  next?" 

And  Barbara  answered  in  words :  "Yes,  the  country- 
people  come  to  do  their  shopping,"  though  she  was 
really  laughing  out  in  eager  response:  "Yes!  Yes! 
It's  glorious  fun  for  us  two  just  to  be  alive  together 
in  the  world." 


di2  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

But  while  such  a  conversation  is  thrillingly  inter- 
esting to  take  part  in,  it  is  very  dull  to  describe;  be- 
cause even  those  who  have  held  it  cannot  recall  after- 
wards the  delightful  little  shock  of  thoughts  unexpect- 
edly meeting  and  fusing,  and  the  spark  which  flies  up 
then,  lighting  all  existence  for  a  lovely  minute.  Such 
things  refuse  to  come  back  even  in  the  happiest  mem- 
ories. 

When  Barbara  and  her  companion  reached  the  toy- 
shop of  which  they  were  in  search,  however,  this  magic 
circuit  was  broken  and  a  sense  of  dull  insufficiency  fell 
upon  them.  They  became  blankly  self-conscious  and 
disappointed,  groping,  without  knowing  it,  to  set  up 
the  connection  again.  This  is  a  moment  when  half- 
lovers  often  feel  disappointed  with  each  other  and  say 
to  themselves:  "He — or  she — is  not  what  I  thought," 
and  so  go  away  for  ever. 

Thus  they  entered  the  shop  rather  like  the  peacocks 
who  have  been  walking  along,  thinking  themselves 
monarchs  with  shining  tails,  and  now  suddenly  find 
their  tails  have  moulted :  each  wondering  how  they 
can  have  been  deceived  by  such  a  dull  bird. 

"Oh!"  said  Barbara  to  the  attendant  in  a  stiff,  un- 
natural voice.  "Have  you  any  toys  for  a  baby, 
please  ?" 

"Our  choice  of  toys  is  limited,"  said  the  woman 
severely.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  never  been  a  baby 
and  hated  toys.  "War,  of  course.  How  old  is  your 
baby,  madam?" 

"Oh,  quite  small." 

"Can't  walk  yet,"  added  Brooke  gruffly. 

The  grim  spinster  cast  upon  them  both  a  look  of 


SIGNALS  113 

pitying  tolerance  and  brought  forth  her  most  expensive 
woolly  toy  which  rattled  dismally  somewhere  inside. 

"Noisy:  and  soils  quickly,  of  course.  But  babies 
always  love  this  doll,  and  I  find  parents  don't  seem  to 
mind  when  it's  the  first."  And  once  more  she  squeezed 
and  shook  with  the  same  drearily  contemptuous  air, 
as  if  long  processions  of  young  parents  who  were  fools 
filed  through  the  past  before  her  eyes.  "I  always 
say " 

"I'll  take  it,"  interrupted  Brooke;  then  he  remem- 
bered that  Barbara  had  expressly  come  out  with  him 
to  choose  the  toy :  "That  is,  if  the  lady  likes  it." 

Barbara  nodded  and  the  woman  signified  approval 
of  this  quick  purchase  by  a  wintry  smile  and  an  ob- 
viously over-worked  jest.  "I  generally  find  ladies  do 
choose  this  when  they  come  with  their  husbands,  sir. 
But  as  I  always  say,  no  use  taking  both  a  husband 
and  a  purse  out  with  you,  is  it,  madam?  Either  one 
or  the  other."  She  paused  and  drew  forth  a  tray  of 
ivory  rings.  "What  about  one  of  these?  While 
you  are  doing?  The  baby  is  sure  to  need  one,  and 
they  last  for  half  a  dozen  if  required." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Brooke,  holding  out  the 
money.  Then  grasping  the  doll  he  walked  out,  leaving 
Barbara  to  follow. 

The  woman  looked  after  him  and  followed  Barbara 
to  the  door. 

"Please  forgive  me,"  she  said,  and  to  Barbara's 
intense  surprise  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "I  wouldn't 
hurt  the  feelings  of  any  one  serving  at  the  Front — not 
for  worlds.  I  lost  a  nephew  of  my  own  there  that  was 
like  a  son  to  me.  And  of  course  your  husband  can't 
be  certain — there's  no  knowing  if  he  will  be  there  to 


114  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

see  even  this  baby  teething  .  .  .  I'm  sure  I  meant  no 
offence." 

Barbara  patted  the  woman's  arm,  in  her  own  emo- 
tional state  touched  quite  beyond  the  occasion,  and 
with  her  eyes  also  swimming  in  tears. 

"The  toy  is  not  for  us,"  she  said.  "We  are  not 
married.  We  were  just  buying  it  for  a  present." 

"Well,  so  long  as  there  is  no  offence." 

And  the  woman  gazed  after  them  wistfully  for  a 
moment  before  she  went  back  into  the  shop. 

They  were  talking  more  naturally  now,  and  soon 
entered  the  grimy  looking  archway  into  the  Market 
Hall,  which  seemed  very  dim  and  cool  with  its  piles  of 
fruit  and  bunches  of  pinks  and  roses  after  the  busy 
street. 

"Here's  the  stall  I  go  to,"  said  Barbara.  "See  that 
young  officer  standing  there?  He's  the  woman's  son 
and  was  in  a  grocer's  shop.  I  like  him  for  not  being 
ashamed  to  come  here." 

"Why  should  he  be?"  said  Brooke.  "I  helped  in 
a  store  in  Canada  when  I  first  went  out.  The  man  I 
was  with  at  that  time  came  over  to  enlist  when  I  did — 
a  splendid  fellow!" 

"Where  is  he  now?"  said  Barbara,  choosing  her 
lettuce  carefully. 

"Oh,  he's  fallen.  I  went  to  see  his  mother  last  week. 
He'd  planted  a  garden  for  her  out  there  and  she  was  to 
have  gone  to  him.  But  he  had  to  come  when  the  war 
broke  out.  We  all  had.  I  remember  how  we  talked 
it  over  one  night  in  Calgary — twenty  of  us — and  I 
do  believe  any  one  of  them  would  have  turned  their 
backs  on  a  million  of  money  if  it  had  been  offered 


SIGNALS  115 

them  to  stop  out  there.  They  were  mad  to  take  sides 
with  England."  He  paused,  pushed  his  cap  back  and 
took  a  strawberry.  "Some  strawberries,  these!" 

So  Barbara  knew  that  he  did  not  want  to  say  any 
more  about  the  war,  but  all  the  time  they  were  walking 
round  the  cool,  arched  hall  between  the  fruit  and  flow- 
ers and  piles  of  green  vegetables,  she  saw  before  her 
those  twenty  men,  eager-hearted,  burning  to  help  the 
Motherland.  Brooke's  face  was  among  them,  but 
seemed  already,  as  it  appeared  now,  his  eyes  glowing 
with  the  same  inward  fire. 

When  they  came  out  into  the  narrow,  crowded 
streets  of  old  Flodmouth  where  the  banks  and  great 
businesses  still  go  on,  the  sunlight  through  the  soft 
haze  made  quite  a  dazzling  brightness  after  the  cool 
twilight  of  the  hall.  And  here  and  there  among  girls 
and  women  carrying  fruit  and  flowers  back  to  the  out- 
lying parts  of  the  town,  were  neat,  well-brushed,  mid- 
dle-aged men  and  boys  going  about  their  morning's 
business.  Just  as  they  passed  the  corner  of  the  street 
leading  to\vards  the  docks,  Frank  Garret  came  running 
down  the  steps  of  an  impressive  building  and  raised 
his  hat  to  Barbara,  then  went  on  quickly. 

But  she  was  angry  to  feel  the  hot  blood  surge  up 
into  her  face,  colouring  even  her  neck  and  forehead, 
and  almost  bringing  tears  of  embarrassment  into  her 
eyes.  It  was  somehow  so  particularly  hateful  to  her 
at  that  moment,  that  he  should  still  have  power  to 
move  her  in  this  way :  and  though  Brooke  was  looking 
straight  before  him  she  knew  he  had  seen  that  painful 
blush — the  badge  of  an  old  slavery  which  she  could  not 
after  all  be  free  of,  though  she  had  felt  an  absolute 
freedom  on  the  day  of  Blanche's  wedding.  It  was  a 


ii6  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

shame.  He  had  had  all  the  fresh  dreams  of  her  girl- 
hood and  she  could  never  take  that  back  again.  There 
must  always  be  this  secret  bond  between  them. 

She  stared  down  at  the  flowers  which  Brooke  had 
given  her,  letting  people  bump  into  her  without  being 
sufficiently  conscious  of  it  to  evade  them — bewildered 
with  the  puzzle  of  life.  And  Brooke  tramped  by  her, 
conscious  once  more  of  the  pain  in  his  arm  which  he 
had  forgotten  until  he  saw  her  blush  crimson  over 
forehead  and  neck  at  another  man's  greeting.  He  did 
not  put  his  feeling  down  to  this  cause,  but  rather  to  a 
dull  sense  of  fatigue  which  made  him  suddenly  not 
care  whether  he  ever  saw  Barbara  again  .  .  .  One  of 
those  strange  withdrawals  which  accompany  the  begin- 
ning of  a  great  attraction ;  as  if  human  nature  instinc- 
tively feared  the  stress  of  what  was  coming. 

At  the  end  of  the  Avenue  Barbara  stood  still  and 
took  from  him  the  basket  which  he  had  insisted  on 
carrying  with  his  good  hand,  and  in  giving  him  the 
toy  she  said  artificially — 

"Dear  little  Kitchener!  How  delighted  he  will  be 
with  his  present !"  Then  she  laughed  at  nothing. 

"Hope  so.  The  old  girl  in  the  shop  seemed  certain 
of  it."  And  he,  too,  laughed  aimlessly. 

But  sudden  with  those  words  there  flashed  across 
their  foolish  unreality  the  quick  recollection  that  they 
had  been  for  a  moment,  in  the  eyes  of  a  fellow  human 
being,  husband  and  wife.  It  was  thus  the  shopwom- 
an's  thoughts  had  joined  them,  and  they  could  not  yet 
put  themselves  quite  asunder — though  they  both 
fought  against  the  utter  ridiculousness  of  it. 

"Well,  good-bye,  Miss  Simpson.  Thanks  so  much 
for  helping  me  to  choose." 


SIGNALS  117 

"Oh,  not  at  all.    Good-bye." 

But  again,  as  on  the  last  occasion,  they  made  ready 
to  part  and  suddenly  could  not  let  each  other  go; 
they  must  create  a  way  by  which  they  could  still  keep 
hold  of  a  thread  that  might  lead  them  back  each  to 
the  other. 

He  fumbled  with  the  toy. 

"I  don't  believe  I  quite  got  the  hang  of  this  thing. 
You  couldn't  just  come  round  with  me  to  present  it, 
could  you?" 

She  waited  a  moment:  "No,  I  have  been  out  too 
long  already." 

"Oh,  of  course  I  ought  not  to  trouble  you.  You've 
been  awfully  good."  And  he  saluted  and  moved  on. 

But  something  about  his  figure  as  he  turned  away — 
a  wistful  loneliness  so  at  variance  with  his  hardened 
look  and  excessive  vitality — struck  that  same  chord 
in  her  that  had  made  her  go  up  and  speak  to  him  out- 
side the  Cinema  Hall  and  struck  it  more  deeply.  Her 
whole  being  was  vibrating  as  she  caught  him  up,  but 
the  fire  which  leapt  into  his  eyes  when  her  hand  touched 
his  arm  and  he  swung  round  towards  her,  made  her 
pause  again. 

"I  was  wondering "  she  began,  incoherently — 

"would  you  come — that  is,  I  wondered  if  you  would 
care  to  have  tea  with  us  to-morrow  afternoon  and  then 
we  could  take  the  toy  round  afterwards?" 

"I  should — I  should  indeed,"  he  answered. 

But  they  both  felt  as  if  they  had  just  been  losing 
each  other  in  a  terrible  maze  where  they  might  never 
meet  again,  and  had  somehow  managed  at  the  last 
minute  to  catch  each  other  by  the  hand.  They  were 


ii8  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

left  a  little  breathless  with  the  curious  strain  and  sud- 
den relief  of  it. 

"About  four  o'clock?" 

"Yes.  I  have  massage  to-morrow  morning.  I  ex- 
pect I  can  get  off  at  that  time." 

"Then  you'd  better  let  me  keep  the  toy  until  to- 
morrow." 

"Thank  you.  Oh,  that'll  be  splendid.  Nowhere 
to  put  anything  in  hospital." 

They  parted  again,  some  subtle  instinct  warning  him 
against  offering  to  walk  all  the  way  home  with  her. 
He  had  already  got  so  much  .  .  .  every  fibre  in  him 
was  now  responsive  to  those  delicate  advances  and 
withdrawals  in  her. 

Barbara  had  no  sooner  reached  the  house  than  she 
began  to  wonder  what  on  earth  had  induced  her  to 
invite  a  stranger  to  tea  on  a  Saturday  when  Mr.  Simp- 
son was  at  home  and  she  herself  was  always  particu- 
larly busy.  Surely  there  was  work  enough,  in  all  con- 
science, on  that  day  in  a  servantless  household,  with- 
out going  out  of  the  way  to  entertain  soldiers.  So 
Barbara  reasoned  within  herself,  feeling  quite  certain 
that  she  did  not  want  to  see  Brooke  so  soon  again,  and 
yet  restless  until  he  came.  Her  household  tasks  were 
performed  with  a  furious  energy  that  left  no  place  for 
thought;  and  yet  all  the  time  she  was  conscious  of  a 
thousand  .pricking  regrets  and  embarrassments  which 
she  intended  to  put  right  in  his  eyes  by  her  dignified 
and  charming  demeanour  when  they  next  met. 

Why  had  she  said  this?  Why  had  she  not  said 
that?  Why  had  she  looked  so? 

And  then  a  sudden  tide  of  warmth  came  flowing  all 


SIGNALS 119 

over  her  as  she  remembered  his  eyes  looking  into  hers 
over  the  market  bunch  of  pinks  and  roses. 

By  supper  time,  however,  she  was  again  certain 
that  she  regretted  having  asked  him,  and  she  said  as 
much  to  Elsie  while  they  were  laying  the  table.  But 
when  Elsie  replied:  "Don't  you  like  him  then?"  she 
was  conscious  of  an  untruthfulness  in  her  own  imme- 
diate :  "Oh,  I  like  him,  but  I  don't  think  I  should  care 
to  see  much  of  him,  that's  all." 

"Well,"  said  Elsie,  banging  down  the  mustard  pot, 
"I  only  hope  you  won't  see  much  of  him  if  it  always 
makes  you  as  jumpy  and  irritable  as  you  have  been 
since  luncheon.  You  keep  snapping  my  head  off  first 
about  one  thing  and  then  another."  She  paused,  look- 
ing critically  at  her  sister.  "And  yet  it  can't  be  be- 
cause you  have  fallen  in  love.  You  always  used  to 
come  home  from  walks  with  Frank  Garret  in  a  mild 
and  affectionate  frame  of  mind.  I  remember  you  gave 
me  your  Tennyson  one  time,  and  a  pair  of  scissors  an- 
other." 

"Oh !"  Barbara  curbed  herself  and  used  her  ancient 
weapon.  "You  are  too  young  to  talk  about  such 
things.  It  will  be  a  good  thing  when  you  start  going 
to  school  again." 

Elsie  laughed. 

"Good  old  Barbie!  You  shouldn't  be  so  nice  that 
the  young  men  get  gone  on  you.  It's  your  doing,  not 
mine." 

Then  Mr.  Simpson's  light  tread  in  the  hall — so  al- 
ways light  that  it  told  nothing — put  an  end  to  the  dis- 
cussion. He  looked  fagged  and  worn,  however,  and 
they  all  three  tried  to  ply  him  with  the  choicest  morsels, 
pretending  to  have  no  appetite  that  evening  for  any- 


120  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

thing  but  bread  and  margarine,  and  surreptitiously 
trying  to  make  him  eat  what  remained  on  the  dish. 
So  after  a  while  he  grew  more  alert  and  cheerful,  tell- 
ing them  various  scraps  of  news  from  the  town  accord" 
ing  to  his  usual  habit. 

"Saw  Binny  to-day.  He  seems  a  bit  shy  of  me.  I 
think  he  feels  uncomfortable  about  not  giving  me  a 
job — though  he  did  offer." 

"I  hope  he  does,"  said  Elsie.  "But  you're  all  right 
where  you  are." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Simpson  rather  heavily. 
He  had  been  reprimanded  during  the  afternoon  by  the 
office  boy  of  his  own  day  at  Wagstaffe's  for  some 
clerical  error  and  still  felt  sore,  and  ashamed  to  be 
sore :  a  complicated  and  unpleasant  feeling. 

"It's  hard  to  come  down  in  business,"  said  Mrs. 
Simpson.  "Nobody  knows  but  those  who  have  done 
it" 

"Well,  Father  may  be  going  down  in  the  world," 
cried  Elsie  fiercely,  "but  he's  gone  up  in  our  thoughts ; 
hasn't  he,  Mother?  Hasn't  he,  Barbara?  I  think 
Dad's  every  bit  as  splendid  as  Uncle  Horace,  who 
went  to  the  Front.  He's  lost  nearly  everything,  and 
is  having  a  perfectly  piggy  time,  and  no  pay,  hardly, 
and  not  making  a  fuss.  I  think  he's  simply  splendid." 

Mr.  Simpson  got  up  from  the  table  and  took  his  pipe 
from  the  chimney-piece.  After  a  moment  or  two  he 
turned  round :  "I  say,  girls,  I've  thought  of  a  riddle : 
Where  do  you  go  up  when  you  think  you're  going 
down?  Why,  South  Pole,  of  course."  And  he 
chuckled. 

Elsie  once  more  felt  keenly  irritated  by  this  speci- 
men of  "Father's  jokes,"  which  the  girls  had  learned 


SIGNALS  121 

to  regard  with  impatient  tolerance  almost  from  their 
cradles,  but  Mrs.  Simpson  looked  across  at  her  husband 
and  thought  wistfully  how  dear  he  was;  because  she 
had  come  to  that  stage  in  human  life  when  we  know 
that  our  loved  ones  are  loved  most  intimately  just  for 
the  little  things  we  laugh  at  in  them. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SATURDAY  AFTERNOON 

IT  was  early  on  Saturday  afternoon  that  Miss  Pell- 
ing  stood  in  her  little  front  garden  gazing  up  into 
the  sky.  Gladys  was  close  behind  her,  and  the  strange 
new  sound  which  had  come  to  mingle  with  the  old 
Flodmouth  noises  buzzed  insistent  through  the  scream- 
ing of  an  engine.  The  bird-like  thing  moved  quickly 
over  the  roofs  of  the  houses. 

"An  aeroplane." 

"Yes;  I  hate  'em,"  said  Miss  Pelling. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Gladys,  still  goggling,  though  the 
object  of  her  search  had  disappeared  into  the  blue- 
grey  distance.  "They're  wrong.  If  we'd  been  meant 
to  fly  we  should  ha'  been  given  wings  on  our  shoul- 
ders." 

"Nonsense!"  replied  Miss  Pelling  briskly.  "You 
might  as  well  say  if  we  were  meant  to  go  by  train 
we  should  have  been  given  boilers  in  our  insides." 
So  Gladys  retired,  and  Miss  Pelling  remained  to  greet 
Mr.  Binny  and  Mr.  Simpson,  who  were  walking  down 
the  street  at  that  moment,  talking  with  the  sort  of 
important  and  confidential  seriousness  which  had  been 
absent  from  their  conversation  for  some  time. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  Mr.  Simpson  was  saying. 
"An  unprotected  lady  .  .  .  the  man  lodging  only  next 

122 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON  123 

door.  .  .  ."  He  paused.  "In  absolute  confidence,  of 
course,"  he  added  weightily. 

"Of  course.  I  thought  you  would  agree  with  me," 
said  Mr.  Binny.  "There  may  be  nothing  in  it,  but 
in  these  days  it  is  impossible  to  be  too  careful." 

Mr.  Simpson  dropped  his  voice  a  shade  lower. 

"I  suppose  you  are  certain  it  is  a  wig?" 

"Absolutely,"  said  Mr.  Binny,  with  great  firmness. 
"I  took  the  opportunity  of  gathering  my  apples, 
though  they  were  not  ready — there  are  five  on  my  tree 
this  year,  by  the  way,  but  I  did  not  apply  for  preserv- 
ing sugar — and  from  the  top  of  the  ladder  I  could  see 
across  Miss  Felling's  garden  and  into  the  next.  The 
man  was  asleep,  and  his  wig  had  slipped  on  one  side. 
There  was  no  mistaking  it." 

But  Mr.  Simpson  still  preserved  enough  of  that  gen- 
erous tolerance,  which  before  the  war  would  have  per- 
mitted any  sort  of  malefactor  in  any  sort  of  disguise 
to  live  unsuspected  in  the  Avenue,  to  make  him  say 
rather  doubtfully — 

"There's  nothing  wrong  in  a  wig,  as  such.  Doesn't 
he  do  anything  else  ?" 

"That's  just  it!"  cried  Mr.  Binny.  "He  doesn't  do 
anything  else.  He  sits  all  day  poring  over  some 
sort  of  papers." 

"Has  he  a  foreign  accent?"  pursued  Mr.  Simpson. 

"N-no,"  acknowledged  Mr.  Binny.  "I  asked  him 
the  time  one  day,  and  I  am  bound  to  say  his  th's  are 
all  right — quite  all  right!  I  dare  say  he  was  born  in 
England."  Then  he  wagged  his  head  wisely: 
"Foreigners  are  not  the  only  ones." 

"I  don't  like  to  think  that,"  said  Mr.  Simpson  warm- 
ly. "I  don't  like  to  think  that  at  all." 


124  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Simpson,"  said  Mr.  Binny,  putting  a  finger  on  his 
friend's  sleeve,  "that  is  just  where  you  are  to  blame — 
you  and  your  like;  you  think  too  well  of  human  na- 
ture. This  war  would  never — 

Then  they  had  to  return  Miss  Felling's  salutation 
at  close  quarters,  and  the  conversation  was  broken  off 
for  the  present.  When  both  gentlemen  stood  outside 
the  iron  gate  and  the  lady  just  within,  Mr.  Binny  gave 
a  conspirator's  glance  up  and  down  the  Avenue  and 
said  in  a  very  low  voice — 

"We  were  just  speaking  of  your  next-door  neigh- 
bour. I  believe  I  saw  him  bringing  you  a  basket  of 
flowers  and  vegetables  last  evening — quite  by  accident, 
of  course — and  I  thought  it  only  right  to  give  you  a 
word  of  warning." 

Miss  Felling  started  and  glanced  at  Mr.  Simpson, 
but  his  face  was  also  bodeful  and  glum. 

"There's  nothing  wrong  with  the  man,  is  there?" 
she  said.  "He  seems  a  very  agreeable  neighbour  and 
perfectly  harmless." 

"They  all  do,"  chanted  Mr.  Binny  from  somewhere 
deep  in  his  cadaverous  stomach. 

"We  just  thought  we  ought  to  give  you  a  hint, 
that's  all,"  said  Mr.  Simpson  more  lightly.  "The  man 
certainly  wears  a  wig  and  only  goes  out  after  sunset. 
And  Mr.  Binny  thought  of  your  unprotected  state." 

"Did  he?"  said  Miss  Felling;  then  she  seemed  to 
bite  off  some  further  remark,  and  added  calmly: 
"Well,  it  is  very  kind  of  you  both.  But  in  my  opinion 
Mr.  Montgomery  is  perfectly  all  right.  Thank  you, 
all  the  same." 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  Mr.  Binny  nervously,  "it 
might  be  as  well  not  to  accept  any  more  gifts  from 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON  125 

him.  On  the  principle Ha!  Ha!  Fear  the  gifts 

of  the  Greeks !" 

"Oh!"  Again  Miss  Felling  paused  and  an  inscru- 
table look  crossed  her  face.  "The  fruit  and  vegeta- 
bles were  delicious.  They  came  from  a  friend  of 
Mr.  Montgomery's  near  Bradford." 

"Well,  of  course  they  may  have  done.  It  was  only 
that  we  felt  it  right  to  give  you  a  hint.  Wasn't  that 
so,  Simpson?"  said  Mr.  Binny,  beginning  to  move 
away. 

"Lady  alone  .  .  .  kindness  the  only  motive,  I'm 
sure,"  muttered  Mr.  Simpson,  also  vaguely  discon- 
certed by  something  in  Miss  Felling's  attitude. 

Her  door  closed  on  polite  farewells.  The  two  gen- 
tlemen walked  a  few  steps  down  the  street  in  silence. 

"Simpson,"  then  said  Mr.  Binny,  with  a  red  face, 
"I  believe  she  thinks  I  am  jealous — jealous  of  a  lodger 
from  goodness  knows  where  in  a  wig!  That  shows 
what  it  is  to  do  a  kindness  to  a  woman.  He  may 
poison  her  with  his  green  peas  in  future  for  all  I  shall 
do  to  prevent  it !" 

"Never  mind!"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  "if  she  does 
think  you're  jealous  she'll  only  be  flattered." 

"I  don't  care  what  she  thinks,"  said  Mr.  Binny  vio- 
lently, going  towards  his  own  gate;  "but  I  shall  keep 
my  eye  on  that  man  for  the  sake  of  the  Avenue." 

Barbara  was  preparing  tea  in  the  kitchen,  in  a  fume 
of  irritated  sensibility  very  unlike  her  usual  clear  self- 
control.  She  regretted  having  invited  Brooke,  and 
said  to  herself  that  she  hoped  he  would  not  come,  but 
when  four  o'clock  was  past  and  Elsie  said  casually: 
"Your  soldier's  evidently  not  going  to  turn  up,  Bar- 


126  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

bara,"  she  experienced  an  extraordinary  sense  of  irri- 
tation, and  her  heart  began  to  beat,  not  in  its  normal, 
unnoticed  fashion,  but  with  a  thud,  thud,  thud,  which 
made  her  feel  slightly  sick.  She  wanted  Brooke  to 
come  quickly  ...  she  never  wanted  to  see  him  again. 
.  .  .  Oh,  it  was  perfectly  hateful ! 

The  clock  ticked  on  as  she  sat  there,  so  quiet  to  look 
at  but  consumed  within  by  an  intolerable  restlessness. 

Tick!  Tick!  went  the  clock,  and  the  Flodmouth 
noises  outside  sounded  louder  and  louder  with  the  same 
sort  of  hideous  cadence  they  took  on  when  one  was  ill 
and  had  a  high  temperature.  Summ  .  .  .  Summ  .  .  . 
Summ.  .  .  .  And  that  hideous  high  shriek  of  the  en- 
gine which  one  watched  for  and  found  unbearable 
when  it  came. 

"Barbara,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson  placidly.  "I  think 
we  had  better  have  tea.  Will  you  tell  your  father? 
I  saw  him  outside  a  minute  ago  with  Mr.  Binny." 

"Oh,  yes.     Quarter  to  five." 

Barbara  went  out  smiling;  but  as  she  was  pouring 
the  hot  water  into  the  tea-pot,  she  felt  a  sudden  leap 
of  the  pulses  and  an  almost  uncontrollable  anger.  He 
should  come !  He  must  come ! 

She  carried  the  tea-pot  down  the  passage,  physically 
troubled  by  this  strange,  unwonted  gust  of  anger  that 
had  assailed  her.  But  when  the  iron  gate  clicked  and 
alert  footsteps  hurried  up  the  path,  she  was  able  to 
answer  the  door  and  call  out  in  a  cool,  pleasant  tone, 
"Oh,  good  afternoon,  Mr.  Brooke!"  so  that  no  one 
living  could  have  guessed  how  her  knees  shook  under 
her  in  the  sudden  relief  from  suspense. 

Mrs.  Simpson  also  came  forward,  holding  out  a  cor- 
dial hand. 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON  127 

"We  were  afraid  you  were  not  coming,  Mr. 
Brooke,"  she  said. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  I  couldn't  get  away  from  the  Hos- 
pital before,"  he  answered;  and  his  absolute  simplicity 
influenced  the  Simpsons  as  it  had  done  Miss  Felling. 
They  were  able  at  once  to  talk  of  ordinary  things — 
safe  and  comfortable  things,  such  as  Brooke's  wound 
and  the  war  and  the  weather — while  Mr.  Simpson  un- 
loaded several  of  his  best  anecdotes. 

Barbara  sat  down  in  silence  and  began  pouring  out 
tea.  She  did  not  want  to  say  anything.  A  warm 
tide  seemed  to  be  flowing  all  through  her,  to  the  tips 
of  the  work-reddened  fingers  that  hovered  so  capably 
among  the  cups.  She  felt  for  the  moment  that  she 
had  everything  she  wanted  in  the  whole  world.  She 
was  satisfied  with  his  presence  as  he  sat  there  talking 
to  the  others  and  glancing  at  her  now  and  then.  She 
knew  now  that  she  had  not  been  deceived.  His  eyes 
did  indeed  glow  with  that  same  inward  fire  which  she 
had  seen  last  night  when  she  lay  on  her  bed  in  the 
dark,  and  there  was  the  deep  seam  on  his  left  cheek 
that  made  a  furrow  when  he  smiled. 

She  looked  away,  the  red  colour  creeping  over  her 
face  from  neck  to  forehead;  then  she  glanced  up  half 
nervously  and  saw  his  eyes  upon  her.  She  saw  him 
remove  his  glance  with  an  effort.  .  .  . 

And  all  the  time  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Simpson  and  Elsie 
and  he  talked  together  while  these  two  seemed  to  be 
saying  nothing  at  all  to  each  other.  But  what  they 
said  was  indeed  making  the  tea-scented  air  of  that  lit- 
tle room  vibrate  beween  them;  the  most  tremendous 
signals  that  can  pass  between  a  man  and  a  woman 
were  being  flashed  every  minute.  As  Barbara  sat 


128 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

filling  the  tea-pot  and  pouring  fresh  tea,  a  sort  of  pas- 
sion-lit space  enveloped  him  and  her,  and  produced 
the  illusion  that  the  rest  were  a  long  way  off. 

Then  Mr.  Simpson  asked  Barbara  a  direct  question, 
and  she  had  to  join  in  the  conversation,  though  the 
extreme  distance  between  her  words  and  what  was 
going  on  unspoken,  made  her  seem  stilted  and  formal. 
After  a  while  she  unconsciously  ceased  to  answer  or 
make  those  flashing  signals,  and  blank  nothingness 
stretched  between  her  and  Brooke :  so  he,  too,  became 
formal,  and  felt  vaguely  disappointed  without  knowing 
why. 

But  they  had  both  longed  so  intensely  for  this  meet- 
ing and  built  such  impossible  hopes  upon  it,  after  the 
fashion  of  lovers,  that  they  were  now  suffering  a  reac- 
tion. Brooke  listened  mechanically  to  Mr.  Simpson's 
anecdotes:  "So  the  soldier  said,  I've  already  had  my 
face  washed  nineteen  times,  miss,"  .  .  .  and  to  the 
clang,  clang!  of  the  car-bell  in  the  distance. 

Brooke  began  to  wish  he  had  not  come.  He  sat 
there,  unwilling  to  go  and  equally  unwilling  to  stay, 
while  Barbara  began  to  feel  a  blind  unreasoning  irrita- 
tion against  everybody,  Brooke  included.  He  was 
somehow  failing  her — she  was  not  getting  what  she 
wanted — something  for  which  her  whole  being  was 
keyed  up  for  and  expectant — and  yet  she  did  not  know 
what  she  wanted. 

He  saw  more  clearly.  It  was  plain  enough  to  him 
that  if  he  could  but  get  rid  of  the  Simpson  family  and 
be  alone  with  Barbara — even  though  they  only  talked 
of  the  weather — there  might  be  some  chance  of  re- 
establishing that  wonderful  state  of  things  which  he 
mentally  called  "hitting  it  off  together." 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON  129 

At  last  he  rose  to  take  his  leave,  and  said:  "Well, 
I  think  I  must  be  going  on  to  interview  this  baby  now, 
Mrs.  Simpson.  Your  daughter  kindly  said  she  would 
help  me  to  brave  the  lady  in  charge  and  present  the 
toy.  I'm  rather  frightened  of  Mrs.  Hobby — she  does 
seem  so  capable.  I  have  a  feeling  she  might  smack  me 
and  send  me  to  bed." 

"Oh!"  Mrs.  Simpson  hesitated,  unable  to  refuse; 
but  Mr.  Simpson  came  to  the  rescue  with  the  obtuse- 
ness  not  rare  in  the  fathers  of  pretty  daughters.  "Look 
here,  Brooke,"  he  announced  handsomely,  "I'll  walk 
with  you  as  far.  I  am  going  that  way  to  see  the  Vicar 
about  some  Coal  Club  accounts  which  I  audit.  Kill 
two  birds  with  one  stone,  eh?"  And  he  accompanied 
his  guest  out  into  the  little  hall,  feeling  sure  that  any 
man  must  prefer  his  society  to  Barbara's. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Brooke,  without  en- 
thusiasm. "Good-bye,  Mrs.  Simpson.  Good-bye, 
Miss  Elsie."  He  kept  Barbara  for  the  last,  hoping 
against  hope  that  she  would  offer  to  accompany  her 
father  and  yet  finding  himself  unable  to  suggest  it  be- 
cause of  some  subtle  withdrawal  in  her  attitude  which 
made  him  uncertain  of  her  wishes.  Didn't  she,  after 
all,  want  to  come?  .  .  .  And  she  could  not  break  the 
spell  which  her  own  emotions  and  the  presence  of  her 
family  laid  on  her  ready  tongue.  For  some  prepos- 
terous reason  which  she  vaguely  despised  and  failed  to 
understand,  she  was  unable  to  say,  plump  out:  "I'll 
come  too,  Father."  All  her  clear  simplicity  seemed  to 
have  departed  as  she  touched  Brooke's  hand,  murmur- 
ing: "Good-bye.  I  hope  your  arm  will  soon  be  quite 
better." 

"Looks  like  it."     And  he  got  himself  a  few  steps 


130  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

nearer  to  the  door.  "Scarcely  hope  to  see  you  again. 
I'm  going  to  Scarcliffe  the  beginning  of  the  week,  I 
expect." 

"Beautiful  air :  you'll  like  that,"  said  Mr.  Simpson, 
"Oh,  you'll  love  the  sea-bathing,"  said  Elsie. 
They  stood  for  a  moment  in  a  group  round  the  front 
door,  then  the  two  men  detached  themselves,  walking 
away  down  the  Avenue.     Mr.  Simpson  was  talking 
and  they  could  hear  his  familiar  chuckle.     A  few  yards 
away  Brooke  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  Barbara 
waved  her  hand,  but  so  did  Mrs.  Simpson  and  Elsie. 

"I  wonder  if  we  shall  ever  see  him  again,"  said 
Elsie,  closing  the  door. 

"Most  likely  not.  He  will  no  doubt  return  to 
France  after  a  few  weeks'  light  duty  at  Scarcliffe," 
said  Mrs.  Simpson,  going  back  into  the  room.  "But 
I  am  very  glad  to  have  shown  him  a  little  attention; 
he  has  behaved  so  well  about  that  child,  has  he  not, 
Barbara?" 

Mrs.  Simpson  took  up  her  knitting  as  she  waited  for 
an  answer,  but  the  eyes  of  her  soul  were  bent  on  her 
daughter. 

"Oh,  yes;  he  seems  quite  a  decent  sort,"  said  Bar- 
bara after  a  momentary  pause.  "Well,  I'd  better  get 
this  tea  cleared  away." 

"Yes;  the  bread-and-butter  will  do  for  supper," 
said  Mrs.  Simpson  readily,  at  once  allowing  the  door 
to  be  closed  in  her  face.  She  could  not  overcome  this 
delicacy  which  had  perhaps  allowed  the  girls  too  much 
freedom,  but  which  had  given  room  for  something 
very  vital  and  real  to  grow  up  in  them.  The  same 
quality  brought  her  many  affectionate  acquaintances 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON  131 

and  few  friends,  but  she  was  so  engrossed  by  her  pas- 
sion for  her  children  that  only  leavings  remained  for 
outsiders,  a  thing  people  are  quick  to  instinctively 
realise. 

But  Barbara  remained  unaware  of  this,  and  as  soon 
as  she  was  beyond  the  door  put  down  her  tray  and 
ran  very  quickly  up  to  the  top  of  the  house,  where  she 
leaned  far  out  of  her  bedroom  window  with  both 
hands  on  the  grimy  sill,  and  just  managed  to  catch 
sight  of  the  two  men  before  they  turned  the  corner 
of  the  Avenue:  her  father  slightly  looking  up  as  he 
talked,  with  his  cork-like  step  and  his  waistcoat  ad- 
vanced, as  usual;  Brooke,  alert,  lean,  but  somehow 
having  the  air  of  forlornness  about  him  in  his  ill-fit- 
ting blue  suit  which  had  struck  her  first  outside  the 
Cinema  Hall.  It  struck  her  now,  with  the  subtle  ap- 
peal which  the  rare  dependence  of  a  high-spirited  child 
will  have  for  a  grown-up  person. 

She  leaned  further  out.  ...  It  seemed  incredible 
that  they  should  be  going  out  of  each  other's  lives  for 
ever  in  this  way.  Then  she  saw  him  swallowed  up 
in  the  crowds  that  passed  the  end  of  the  Avenue. 

"Barbara !"  said  Elsie's  voice  behind,  "what  are  you 
doing?  You'll  fall  out!" 

Barbara  drew  back  and  faced  her  sister. 

"Well,  what  now?  Can't  I  even  look  out  of  the, 
window  ?" 

Elsie  sat  down  on  the  bed  with  her  hand  pressed  to> 
her  back,  but  smiling  impishly. 

"Mother  feels  rather  relieved  he  has  gone  for  good.. 
But  she  needn't  worry  herself  about  him  coming  where 
he's  not  wanted.  He's  as  proud  as  Lucifer.  I'm  rather 
surprised  you  weren't  a  bit  more  decent  to  him,  though. 


132 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

You  asked  him,  and  then  acted  as  if  you  didn't  much 
want  him." 

"What  rot!"  said  Barbara.  "Your  imagination 
runs  away  with  you." 

"Well,"  said  Elsie,  "my  imagination  makes  me  see 
real  things  sometimes  that  other  people  can't;  and 
my  advice  to  you,  Miss  Barbie,  is  to  leave  that  young 
man  alone." 

"I  never  thought  of  doing  anything  else,"  said  Bar- 
bara. 

"Well,  you  won't  have  a  chance.  But  he  isn't  the 
kind  you  can  send  off  and  whistle  back  and  do  as  you 
like  with:  no  Bellerby  tactics  will  succeed  with  him, 
my  girl" 

"How  ridiculous  you  are!  As  if  there  were  any 
idea  of  anything!"  cried  Barbara. 

"I've  eyes  in  my  head  if  I  am  only  fifteen,  said 
Elsie.  "The  way  he  looked  at  you!  However,  he's 
gone  now,  and  you  will  probably  never  see  him  any 
more." 

And  as  Barbara  went  down  the  stairs  those  words 
echoed  drearily  through  the  house,  or  so  it  seemed  to 
her,  though  they  were  only  echoing  and  re-echoing  in 
her  own  mind. 

Mr.  Simpson  returned  after  a  while  saying  that  he 
had  met  Frank  Garret;  they  stopped  to  speak,  and  he 
was  introduced  to  Brooke,  whom  he  had  remembered 
seeing  with  Barbara  in  the  town  on  Friday  morning. 
"Asked  if  he  were  a  Canadian  cousin,  when  I  said  the 
young  man  came  from  Canada — green-eyed  monster, 
eh,  Barbara?  He  seemed  worried  to  hear  it  wasn't 
even  a  half-cousin." 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON  133 

For  Mr.  Simpson  felt  convinced  that  his  daughter 
and  Frank  Garret  would  make  a  match  of  it  in  the 
end,  and  that  her  present  attitude  was  only  a  needed 
discipline  which  she  was  giving  her  tardy  lover.  He'd 
taken  his  time,  now  she  would  take  hers — and  Mr. 
Simpson  approved,  but  thought  it  should  not  go  on  too 
long.  In  the  present  insecurity  of  everything  he  clung 
to  the  idea  of  having  one  daughter  safely  established 
who  might  afford  an  asylum  to  her  sister  and  mother 
if  anything  happened  to  him:  for  the  old  security  had 
gone  from  the  Avenue  and  from  Flodmouth  and  from 
life — they  had,  whether  or  no,  to  live  dangerously. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  Mr.  Simpson  once  more 
acutely  realised  the  change  which  war  had  brought  into 
the  mental  atmosphere.  He  was  sitting  in  a  back 
room  with  the  Vicar,  who  had  been  out  when  he  called 
and  had  followed  him  later  to  No.  28.  The  Coal 
Club  accounts  were  in  order  on  the  table,  and  the  two 
men  sat  for  a  few  minutes  talking  of  parish  matters. 
Then  the  Vicar  suddenly  said — 

"Simpson,  will  you  tell  me  the  truth  if  you  know 
it?  Why  do  the  congregations  get  smaller  every 
Sunday?  I  work  my  heart  out,  managing  with  no 
Curate  and  taking  all  the  daily  services  myself.  God 
knows  how  we  get  along  ourselves  on  the  stipend,  with 
the  price  of  everything  doubled,  but  we  do.  I  don't 
want  to  say  anything  about  that.  Only  it  seems  ter- 
ribly hard  to  see  less  and  less  interest  taken  in  the 
Church  and  everything  connected  with  it.  I  know  I 
must  have  failed  somewhere,  but  I  can't  tell  where. 
I  feel  beaten,  Simpson." 

Hard  work,  a  delicate  family,  poor  food  and  a  high- 
strung,  nervous  constitution  had  sapped  Mr.  Walters's 


134  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

power  of  resistance,  or  he  could  never  have  done  the 
thing  he  did  then,  which  was  to  hide  his  face  in  his 
hands  and  say  with  a  sort  of  groan:  "Oh,  Simpson, 
it's  agony !  I  see  my  people  groping  for  comfort,  and 
I  don't  seem  able  to  help  them.  They  don't  want  me. 
They  don't  want  the  Church.  And  yet  we  ought  to 
be  giving  out  strength  and  comfort.  I  go  to  see  those 
who  have  lost  sons  and  husbands,  and  they  look  at 
me  so  terribly,  asking  why  God  lets  it  all  happen  .  .  . 
and  I  can't  tell  them  ...  I  don't  know  myself.  I 
can  only  tell  them  to  trust.  And  they  want  a  definite 
answer." 

Mr.  Simpson  fidgeted  with  the  papers;  though  he 
and  the  Vicar  had  been  intimately  associated  in  Church 
work  during  several  years,  they  had  never  before 
talked  together  about  their  faith  in  God.  He  found  it 
impossible  to  say  anything  about  that,  so  he  replied 
uncomfortably :  "You  do  your  best.  Every  one  knows 
you  do  your  best.  Your  own  son  is  a  prisoner.  You 
can't  do  any  more."  He  paused.  "All  places  of  wor- 
ship have  diminished  congregations." 

The  Vicar  uncovered  his  face,  which  was  white  and 
drawn  and  rather  mean  of  feature.  "Well,  I  must  go 
home  and  write  my  sermon  for  to-morrow  night,"  he 
said,  rising. 

"Every  one  knows  how  carefully  you  prepare  your 
sermons,"  said  Mr.:  |Simpson,  seeking  to  give  comfort. 
"Binny  was  only,  remarking  last  week  how  scholarly 
they  were  and  well  expressed." 

A  faint  light  glimmered  over  the  Vicar's  face,  the 
sign  of  that  indestructible  susceptibility  of  the  preacher 
or  writer  to  public  praise.  "I'm  glad  Binny  liked  it." 
Then  his  look  clouded  again.  "I  don't  know  how  it 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON  135 

is.  I  don't  seem  able  to  get  hold  of  the  people.  They 
stand  aside  and  say  the  Church  has  failed,  bu?  iEe^ 
are  as  much  a  part  of  the  Church  as  I  am.  It's  tfrey,r 
who  have  failed  as  well  as  me."  He  sighed.  "Some- 
times, Simpson,  I  almost  feel  as  if  Christianity  had 
failed.  But  I  know  it's  not  that.  If  only  I  had  the 
power  to  seize  hold  of  it  and  show  it  as  it  is,  flamingly 
alive.  .  .  .  Why,  it's  religion  alone  which  is  making 
people  able  to  endure  so  wonderfully  the  loss  of  all 
they  hold  dear,  but  it's  so  much  a  part  of  them  that 
they  don't  realise  it  is  a  heritage — they  don't  know 
where  they  get  the  power  of  an  endless  life  from." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  almost  as  embarrassed  as 
if  he  had  met  his  clergyman  in  the  Avenue  without 
clothes — there  was  something  equally  strange  to  him 
in  this  glimpse  of  the  Vicar's  naked  soul. 

"Well,  Mr.  Simpson,  the  accounts  are  all  right.  I 
must  be  going  now."  And  they  shook  hands,  the 
Vicar  in  his  usual  clerical  manner  and  Mr.  Simpson 
with  that  odd,  mingled  sense  of  superiority  and  in- 
feriority which  an  ordinary  Englishman  feels  in  the 
presence  of  his  spiritual  adviser.  Then  Mr.  Simpson 
stood  on  the  doorstep  and  watched  the  thin,  rather 
shabbily  clad  figure  go  down  the  Avenue.  He  felt 
sorry  and  yet  faintly  contemptuous. 

And  the  Vicar  brooded  unhappily  as  he  walked, 
turning  over  mechanical  platitudes  for  the  next  day's 
sermon  in  his  mind  and  oppressed  by  a  heavy  con- 
sciousness of  failure. 

He  did  not  realise  that  at  the  very  moment  of  his 
deepest  discouragement,  more  people  in  the  Avenue 
were  seeking  after  God  than  had  ever  done  so  since 
the  bow-windowed  houses  were  first  built.  It  might 


136  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

not  be  in  his  way,  but  quite  surely  all  the  prayers  and 
agonies  of  those  who  wanted  light  were  flowing  into 
unseen  channels — working  in  silence  on  the  tremen- 
dous scale  of  the  Creator.  It  was  perhaps  a  faint  con- 
sciousness of  this,  deep  beyond  knowledge  or  reason, 
which  just  kept  the  Vicar  from  despair. 

But  no  sign  of  these  things  was  apparent  in  his 
bearing  as  he  pulled  up  to  speak  with  mechanical 
cheerfulness  to  Miss  Felling  about 'her  hospital  work, 
and  then  plodded  on  once  more  to  his  belated  tea. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  AMATEUR  DETECTIVES 

FROM  the  outside,  No.  28  Chestnut  Avenue  looked 
much  as  it  had  ever  done — a  comfortable,  mid- 
dle-class residence  lived  in  by  well-clad,  sufficiently  fed 
people.  But  to  another  way  of  seeing  it  was  a  little 
house  standing  half-dismantled  and  forlorn.  The 
storm  of  war  had  indeed  torn  across  it  with  such  star- 
tling suddenness  that  those  inside  were  yet  gathering 
what  remained  to  them  from  among  the  wreckage  with 
a  kind  of  patient  surprise. 

In  thousands  of  houses,  even  in  Flodmouth,  others 
were  doing  the  same;  silently,  without  a  tear  that 
could  be  seen,  they  were  getting  on  with  this  first  work 
of  reconstruction  which  has  to  come  before  all  the  rest. 
But  almost  every  day  their  hearts  were  hurt  afresh  by 
wanting  something  that  had  been  spoilt  or  broken. 
For  instance,  Mrs.  Simpson's  birthday  came,  and  there 
was  no  present  from  Jim,  though  he  had  always  bought 
her  one  with  his  own  pennies  since  he  was  two.  And 
now  it  was  the  August  Bank  Holiday  which  the  Simp- 
sons had  annually  spent  with  Uncle  Horace  at  his 
pleasant  suburban  villa.  They  had  sometimes  wished 
they  were  not  going,  but  now  they  thought  of  him 
coming  out  to  greet  them  with  his  light  suit  and  his 


138  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

sweet-pea  in  his  button-hole  and  his  unenthusiastic 
wife  in  the  background,  and  they  longed  inexpressibly 
— or,  at  least,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Simpson  did — for  such  a 
sunshiny  day  to  come  again. 

But  Mr.  Simpson  did  not  seem  at  all  like  this  as  he 
shouldered  his  spade  on  this  August  Bank  Holiday 
and  went  forth  to  dig  his  own  new  potatoes — nor  did 
the  other  Flodmouth  folk  in  like  case.  There  was, 
indeed,  quite  a  pleasant  sylvan  chorus  murmuring 
through  the  town. 

"Seen  my  peas?     Wonderful  peas!" 

"My  potaties  are  a  picture — you  should  come  along 
and  have  a  look  at  them." 

"Now,  /  have  a  vegetable  marrow " 

But  though  it  all  sounded  so  trivial,  it  had  helped 
thousands  of  sorrowful  people  in  England  to  keep 
sane  in  mind  and  body  until  the  very  worst  of  their 
suspense  or  sorrow  was  over,  and  it  had  also  made 
potatoes  so  plentiful  that  they  could  be  sold  in  the 
midst  of  war-time  for  a  penny  a  pound.  As  Mr. 
Simpson  and  Mr.  Binny  came  down  the  Avenue  to- 
gether, comparing  the  size  of  the  potatoes  in  their 
baskets,  they  were  not  just  a  tall,  thin  man  and  a  little 
fat  one  talking  rather  foolishly  about  gardening — 
they  were  a  sign  of  the  tremendous  latent  vitality  of 
England  which  is  everywhere,  only  awaiting  the  right 
call. 

These  two  gentlemen  were  both  on  an  errand  of 
gallantry,  taking  an  offering  to  little  Mrs.  Du  Caine  at 
the  end  cf  the  street.  Mr.  Simpson's  potatoes  of  his 
best,  but  put  in  carelessly;  Mr.  Binny's  most  neatly 
packed,  with  a  sprig  of  mint  on  the  top.  A  few 
minutes  later,  Mr.  Wilson  also  walked  ponderously  by 


THE  AMATEUR  DETECTIVES       139 

on  a  similar  errand,  and  on  the  very  doorstep  he  en- 
countered little  Dean,  a  clerk  with  a  weak  chest  and 
five  children,  who  was  all  alight  with  the  pleasure 
of  being  "in  it"  with  the  other  men  in  the  street,  and 
having  something  to  give.  The  way  he  cocked  up  a 
perky  eye  at  the  important,  white-spatted  Mr.  Wilson 
and  said  with  a  jovial  man-to-man  air,  "Have  you 
sprayed  yours?"  was  really  pleasant  to  see.  And 
they  walked  back  down  the  Avenue  side  by  side  for 
the  first  time  in  all  the  years  they  had  lived  there 
together. 

In  the  afternoon  Mr.  Simpson  was  assailed  for  a  few 
moments  by  a  sense  of  the  blank  "queerness"  of  this 
Bank  Holiday  as  compared  with  the  past,  but  Barbara 
had  asked  Mrs.  Du  Caine  and  her  babies  to  tea,  and 
they  were  soon  all  laughing  and  talking  in  the  back 
garden:  Mr.  Simpson  rather  pleased  to  bring  out  a 
tale  he  had  recently  abstracted  from  a  comic  paper, 
about  a  nurse  and  a  tattooed  sailor,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  guest,  and  Mrs.  Du  Caine  hiding  deep  in  her  heart 
all  her  own  thoughts  about  those  past  Bank  Holidays 
which  now  looked  like  little  glimpses  of  Paradise. 
Mrs.  Simpson  did  not  talk  much,  but  the  effect  of  her 
presence  lay  on  the  group  like  sunshine;  though  they 
were  hardly  aware  of  her,  it  would  have  been  all 
different  without  her. 

Talk  went  on  round  the  table,  punctuated  by  the 
cries  and  gurglings  of  the  children,  and  they  spoke 
of  the  Bellerbys  next  door,  who  were  staying  with 
Blanche. 

"Did  you  see  that  picture  of  the  bride  in  nursing 
dress  in  the  Daily  Pictorial?  It's  perfectly  lovely, 
isn't  it?"  said  Mrs.  Du  Caine. 


140  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"But  she  doesn't  nurse,  does  she?"  said  Barbara. 

"No.  I  think  she  is  somehow  attached  to  the  Hos- 
pital run  by  her  mother-in-law." 

"Hullo,  Barbie,"  exclaimed  Elsie.  "Blanche  has 
bested  you  again!  You  never  got  your  picture  pub- 
lished anywhere,  even  after  sticking  at  it  for  over  two 
years,  here  and  at  Bournemouth." 

Barbara  laughed. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  care.  Look  at  the  military 
awards !  They  say  nearly  all  the  men  do  things  worthy 
of  a  decoration  over  and  over  again,  only  nobody 
happens  to  see." 

"That's  it.    Well,  they  don't  do  it  for  that." 

And  dimly  a  feeling,  too  vague  for  thought,  glowed 
in  the  hearts  of  the  little  group  .  .  .  they  didn't  do  it 
for  that,  either.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Du  Caine  spoke. 

"I  hear  that  wounded  soldier  who  came  to  see  about 
Miss  Felling's  Lillie's  baby  is  still  at  Scarcliffe." 

Barbara  moved  a  plate  and  said  quickly,  with  her 
eyes  on  it :  "Who  told  you  so  ?  Has  some  one  heard 
from  him?" 

"Yes;  Miss  Felling.  Seems  she  had  a  letter  from 
him  this  morning.  He  expects  to  leave  for  the  Front 
in  about  three  weeks.  His  arm  has  mended  wonder- 
fully quickly  in  that  fine  air." 

"He  behaved  very  well,"  announced  Mr.  Simpson 
once  again.  "I  walked  with  him  myself  to  Mrs. 
Hobby's,  where  the  child  is  being  brought  up.  He 
said  it  had  eyes  just  like  his  brother's." 

"You  never  told  us  that  before,"  said  Barbara. 

"No;  didn't  think  of  it.    In  my  opinion " 

"Wow-oo-oh !"  interrupted  Mrs.  Du  Caine's  young- 


THE  AMATEUR  DETECTIVES       141' 

est  baby — and  the  peaceful  group  being  broken  up, 
there  was  no  more  mention  of  Brooke. 

On  the  following  Saturday  afternoon  Miss  Felling 
was  in  her  garden  entertaining  little  Kitchener  from  a 
sense  of  duty  which  prompted  her  to  see  for  herself 
if  the  child  were  well  and  happy.  Verbal  communica- 
tion on  this  point  with  the  party  most  concerned  being 
impossible,  she  set  him  on  her  knee,  sent  Mrs.  Hobby 
to  take  tea  in  the  kitchen,  and  anxiously  scrutinised 
his  limbs  and  general  appearance.  He  already  seemed 
less  fretful  than  on  first  arrival,  and  smiled  at  the  red 
flower  which  Miss  Felling  dangled  before  him.  A 
gentle  peace  lay  on  all  the  little  back  gardens  at  this 
hour,  and  from  over  the  wall  on  the  right  came  a  gentle 
but  none  the  less  quite  audible  snore.  From  the  one 
on  the  left  came  the  gentle  chink  of  a  tea-cup,  proving 
that  Mr.  Binny  took  tea  in  the  open  air  after  an 
unusually  trying  week  at  business,  complicated  by  a 
slight  liver  attack. 

From  where  he  sat  he  could  not  avoid  seeing  the 
domestic  group  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  in  a  sort 
of  hazy  silhouette  against  the  sunshine.  Nothing 
definite,  but  in  the  general  effect  of  Miss  Felling's  neat 
head  and  erect  figure  as  she  waggled  the  red  flower, 
he  saw  something  rather  intimately  charming. 

Without  any  definite  intention  of  making  advances 
— and  yet  knowing  in  the  pleasantly  titillated  depths 
of  him  that  it  was  an  advance — he  moved  to  the  wall, 
coughed  and  remarked — 

"Delightful  weather.  That  is — er — a  favoured 
young  person." 

But  at  that  precise  moment  the  snores  over  the 


142  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

other  wall  ceased,  perhaps  owing  to  Mr.  Binny's  cough, 
and  the  lodger  got  up,  settled  his  tie,  rubbed  his  eyes 
and  said  pleasantly — 

"Delightful  afternoon,  Miss  Felling." 

"Beautiful!"  said  Miss  Felling,  addressing  both 
gentlemen  by  moving  her  head  first  in  one  direction 
and  then  in  the  other.  She  was  a  very  sensible,  high- 
spirited  woman,  but  the  fact  remains — though  no  doubt 
new  conditions  can  alter  the  laws  of  nature — that  the 
presence  of  two  males  endeavouring  to  attract  atten- 
tion has  thus  far  power  to  stimulate  the  most  sensible 
female. 

"Fine  laurel,  that,"  said  Mr.  Binny,  ignoring  Mr. 
Montgomery  and  assuming  an  intimate  air.  "When  I 
planted  it  for  you,  Miss  Felling,  I  scarcely 
thought " 

"Those  laurels  grow  in  every  cottage  garden  where 
I  come  from;  they  remind  me  of  home,"  said  Mr. 
Montgomery. 

Mr.  Binny  lifted  his  head  like  a  war-horse  slightly 
past  its  prime,  but  with  a  lot  of  kick  still  available. 

"Your  home,  sir?"  he  said.  "May  I  ask  where  you 
formerly  resided?" 

"Neighbourhood  of  Bradford,"  replied  Mr.  Mont- 
gomery, with  what  Mr.  Binny  felt  to  be  intentional 
vagueness.  "As  I  was  saying  before  to  you,  Miss 
Felling " 

"I  hate  mignonette!"  said  Mr.  Binny  defiantly; 
"coarse-growing  thing,  I  consider  it." 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Montgomery,  gathering  up  his 
newspaper.  "I  dare  say  you're  no  flower  lover.  Odd 
thing,  some  men  don't " 

"Roses!"  interposed  Miss  Felling  hastily,  like  one 


THE  AMATEUR  DETECTIVES       143 

who  throws  a  wet  cloth  on  a  rising  fire.  "Roses  are 
my  favourite,  of  course."  She  smiled  from  one  gentle- 
man to  the  other.  "Can't  beat  roses,  in  my  opinion." 

"Yes,  yes,"  agreed  Mr.  Binny  at  once,  "you 
always  have  been  fond  of  roses,  of  course.  I  well 
remember ' ' 

"Well,  give  me  mignonette!"  repeated  Mr.  Mont- 
gomery, who  was  not  an  easy  person  to  shut  the  door 
of  a  conversation  on.  "I  will  send  you  some  that  I 
have  received  from  the  country  to-day,  Miss  Felling, 
and  you  will  be  able  to  judge  for  yourself." 

With  that  he  bowed — as  could  be  judged  by  the 
disappearance  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  of  all  but 
his  forehead  and  discreet  grey  toupee — and  then 
walked  away  leaving  a  flowery  prospect  behind  him, 
which  Mr.  Binny  deeply  resented:  otherwise  it  seems 
probable  that  a  conversation  which  took  place  rather 
later,  when  the  baby  had  been  sent  home,  could  never 
possibly  have  been  shared  by  so  just  a  gentleman. 

At  about  five  o'clock  then,  Mr.  Binny  was  still  in 
his  garden,  occupied  by  this  most  warping  of  all 
emotions,  when  Miss  Felling  came  out  to  fetch  some 
knitting  which  she  had  left  on  her  garden  seat.  This 
time  they  observed  the  strict  back-garden  etiquette 
of  the  Avenue,  which  is  to  ignore  a  neighbour's 
presence  unless  invited  to  become  aware  of  it,  then  to 
say,  with  artless  surprise,  "Oh,  you  there,  Miss  So- 
and-So!" 

Mr.  Binny  was  rigid  in  these  matters,  as  a  rule,  but 
humanity  is  humanity  after  all,  and  when  he  tried  to 
fix  one  eye  on  Miss  Felling  and  the  other  on  a  weed 
he  failed,  pulling  up  instead  a  promising  young  carrot : 


144  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

so  he  straightened  his  back,  advanced  to  the  wall, 
coughed,  and  made  himself  officially  visible. 

"Looks  like  rain." 

Miss  Felling  gave  the  slight  start  which  is  deemed 
correct,  and  answered  in  a  company  voice — 

"Oh,  that  you,  Mr.  Binny?  Yes,  the  weather  does 
seem  to  be  breaking  up." 

She  wore  a  magnificent  spray  of  mignonette,  and 
this  may  have  unconsciously  inspired  Mr.  Binny's  next 
remark:  anyway  he  came  very  close  to  the  wall, 
dropped  his  voice  and  said  gravely :  "Miss  Felling,  I 
have  been  feeling  inwardly  a  little  uncomfortable  of 
late." 

"Oh!  Do  let  me  get  you  some  of  the  peppermint 
cordial  I  always  have  by  me,"  she  said.  "It  is  a  most 
excellent  remedy." 

Mr.  Binny  flushed  slightly. 

"I  was  not  referring  to — er — physical  symptoms," 
he  said.  "The  fact  is,  you  are  a  lady  living  quite 
unprotected  and  alone."  He  paused.  It  cannot  be 
denied  that  Miss  Felling  wondered,  with  a  faint  thrill, 
what  was  coming.  "You  have  to  be  careful  about 
your  neighbours,"  he  concluded. 

Something  very  deep  within  Miss  Felling  cried  out : 
"Is  that  all?"  But  she  answered  briskly:  "What  on 
earth  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Binny?  Are  you  thinking  of 
stealing  my  silver?  If  so,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  it  is 
at  the  bank." 

Mr.  Binny  afforded  her  the  politeness  of  a  mechan- 
ical smile  before  continuing :  "You  may  have  noticed 
Montgomery  wears  a  wig.  Why  does  he  wear  a  wig  ?" 

"Because  he's  bald,  I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Felling, 
rather  surprised. 


THE  AMATEUR  DETECTIVES       145 

Mr.  Binny  came  closer.  His  knees  touched  the 
bricks,  his  chin  just  hung  over  the  top  of  the  wall. 

"But  is  he  bald?" 

The  portentous  gravity  of  Mr.  Binny's  tone  caused 
Miss  Felling  also  to  press  close  to  the  wall,  looking  up, 
but  she  said  nothing. 

"If  he's  not  bald  why  does  he  wear  a  wig?"  pursued 
Mr.  Binny. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Felling. 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Binny.    "That's  just  it." 

They  rested  on  this  for  a  moment;  then  Miss  Pel- 
ling  shook  off  the  too  intense  gravity  of  the  mental 
atmosphere. 

"What  nonsense!"  she  caid.  "You  really  can't 
pretend  he  has  a  German  accent.  It's  English,  and, 
what's  more,  it's  West  Riding.  You  can't  have  any- 
thing much  more  English  than  that,  can  you?" 

"Um!  .  .  .  There's  no  knowing.  .  .  ."  Mr. 
Binny's  pauses  held  far  more  than  his  words. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say "  And  Miss  Felling, 

influenced  against  her  will,  also  dealt  in  impressive 
pauses.  She  stared  up  at  him  and  he  stared  down 
at  her. 

"I  say  nothing.  The  crux  of  the  situation  lies  in 
this:  is  he  bald,  or  is  he  not  bald?  If  he  is,  then  the 
use  of  a  wig  is  legitimate,  of  course.  But  if  he  is 
not " 

"Yes?" 

They  goggled  at  each  other,  pausing  again  on  that — 
a  pause  fuller  than  ever  of  a  number  of  things. 

"Is  it  because  he  wants  to  conceal  his  hair?"  asked 
Mr.  Binny. 

"You  mean  a  disguise?"  murmured  Miss  Felling. 


146 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"I  say  nothing,"  repeated  Mr.  Binny.  "But  you 
are  a  woman  of  keen  perceptions  and  clear  thoughts. 
Why  would  a  man  with  brown  hair  wear  a  grey  wig — • 
or  vice  versa?" 

"There  certainly  is  something  not  open  about  the 
idea,"  agreed  Miss  Felling. 

"And  those  papers  he  is  always  writing  and  never 
visibly  posting?" 

"And  his  going  out  only  after  dark?"  added  Miss 
Felling. 

"Possibly  to  take  them  to  a  distant  post  office,"  sug- 
gested Mr.  Binny. 

"It  certainly  does  look  odd,  when  you  begin  to 
think  about  it." 

Blacker  and  blacker  grew  the  shadow  upon  Mr. 
Montgomery.  Closer  and  closer  drew  Miss  Felling 
and  Mr.  Binny. 

"I  think  we  ought  to  do  something,"  said  Miss 
Felling,  by  now  rather  anxious  herself.  "We  ought  to 
find  out  definitely  if  he  is  all  right  or  not.  If  he  is,  we 
are  doing  him  a  great  injustice.  If  he  is  not,  we  ought 
to  inform  the  police.  But  if  we  inform  the  police  and 
he  turns  out  to  be  quite  harmless,  he  will  leave  the 
Avenue  and  Miss  Brown  will  lose  a  good  lodger  for 
nothing.  And  she  has  a  hard  enough  struggle  to  keep 
her  old  mother  as  it  is."  Miss  Felling  paused,  and  the 
joys  of  the  amateur  detective  vanished  before  the 
thought  of  poor,  harassed  Miss  Brown.  "Oh,  Mr. 
Binny,  I  don't  think  there  is  any  real  need  to  interfere, 
do  you?" 

"We  must  think  of  our  country,"  said  Mr.  Binny, 
and  he  threw  out  his  chest  as  he  spoke,  believing  him- 


THE  AMATEUR  DETECTIVES       147 

self  to  be  animated  by  pure  patriotism.  But  Miss 
Felling  was  still  concerned  with  Miss  Brown. 

"If  we  could  only  secure  a  proof  one  way  or  another 
without  Mr.  Montgomery  knowing,"  she  said,  and  her 
brain  worked  backwards  and  forwards,  like  a  mouse  in 
a  trap,  seeking  a  solution  of  the  difficulty.  At  last  she 
cried  out,  "Oh,  Mr.  Binny!  I've  got  it!" 

He  looked  rather  superior  and  incredulous. 

"Well?" 

She  bent  nearer  and  whispered  eagerly.  His  gaze 
focused.  She  whispered  some  more.  His  superior 
smile  vanished,  then  he  also  whispered;  finally  they 
drew  apart. 

"I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  afternoon,  then,  if 
fine?" 

"I  forgot;  it's  a  Sunday,  Mr.  Binny." 

"Oh!  I'd  forgotten  it.  Well,  soldiers  fight  on 
Sundays.  They  have  to.  Anything  for  the  sake  of 
your  country."  .  .  . 

"That's  just  it." 

They  nodded  with  immense  meaning  at  each  other, 
then  Miss  Pilling  went  back  to  the  house  to  prepare 
for  her  night's  work  at  the  Hospital. 

Next  morning  rose  showery,  and  the  amateur  detec- 
tives went  about  with  an  anxious  eye  on  the  weather. 
But  towards  noon  it  cleared,  and  the  whole  of  Flod- 
mouth  was  luminous  in  misty  sunshine  as  Mr.  Binny. 
returned  from  the  old  church  in  the  heart  of  the  city. 
He  saw  the  tall  warehouses  and  the  spars  of  ships 
rising  into  the  greyish-gold  air,  but  he  did  not  realise 
the  beauty  because  it  was  a  part  of  his  life,  and  of 
his  father's  and  grandfather's  lives  before  him.  He 


148  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

loved  the  old  town  unawares,  as  Mr.  Simpson  did,  and 
Miss  Felling,  and  many  others  who  often  said  they 
disliked  it.  When  he  got  home  he  read  during  the 
Sunday  midday  meal  as  usual,  but  the  words  failed  to 
convey  ideas  because  he  was  going  over  in  his  mind 
the  programme  of  the  afternoon.  Precisely  at  two  he 
took  up  a  book  and  went  to  Miss  Felling's  door. 

"Oh!  Is  Miss  Felling  at  home?"  and  he  displayed 
the  book  to  afford  a  pretext  for  his  visit. 

"Yes;  will  you  walk  in?"  said  Gladys,  already  in 
outdoor  attire,  having  been  given  a  long  afternoon's 
holiday. 

He  entered,  and  the  door  of  the  room  closed  upon 
him.  Miss  Felling  was  discovered  bending  over  a 
fishing-rod. 

"You've  found  it,  then?"  said  Mr.  Binny  in  a  low 
tone,  advancing  with  eagerness.  "Does  it  run  all 
right?" 

"Yes;  haven't  had  it  out  for  years,  but  I  put  it 
away  carefully." 

"Hush!    Is  that  his  step?" 

The  room  was  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  they 
could  hear  heavy  footsteps  through  the  open  window. 

"He's  going  into  the  garden,"  said  Miss  Felling 
tensely,  glancing  at  the  clock.  "He'll  sit  down  in  his 
usual  place  near  the  wall  under  the  lilic  bush.  In  ten 
minutes  he  will  be  asleep." 

"We  will  remain  by  the  window  and  speak  very 
softly,"  directed  Mr.  Binny. 

The  front  door  banged.  Mr.  Binny  and  Miss  Felling 
started  violently. 

"Only  Gladys  going  out,"  breathed  Miss  Felling. 

The  house  seemed  intensely  quiet.   .  .  . 


THE  AMATEUR  DETECTIVES       149 

"I  hope  you  have  put  on  a  large,  strong  hook," 
whispered  Mr.  Binny. 

"Yes.  You  ought  to  be  removing  your  boots  now. 
It  will  save  time,"  said  Miss  Felling. 

"I  scarcely  like "  began  Mr.  Binny,  drawing  in 

his  boots  as  a  mute  protest  against  stocking-feet  in  the 
presence  of  a  lady. 

"Bosh!  If  it  were  your  shirt — when  it's  your  duty 
to  England !"  retorted  Miss  Felling. 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Binny,  rather  stiffly,  and  he 
went  out  into  the  passage ;  he  was  not  going  to  take  his 
boots  off  in  a  lady's  drawing-room  even  for  England. 

He  returned,  stepping  gingerly,  acutely  conscious  of 
his  socks;  then  they  went  down  the  garden  path  to- 
gether. A  pebble  hurt  Mr.  Binny  very  much  indeed, 
but  he  uttered  no  sound.  She,  in  thin  stockings,  bore 
the  situation  with  equal  fortitude.  They  both  silently 
mounted  upon  a  seat  in  Miss  Felling's  garden,  which 
had  been  placed  back  to  back  with  one  in  Mr.  Mont- 
gomery's garden.  Miss  Felling  held  the  line  as  being 
more  used  to  handling  it  and  author  of  the  idea. 

"Hush!"  she  said,  gently  moving  apart  the  branches 
of  the  lilac  tree.  "You  keep  them  in  that  position. 
Now!" 

A  snore  proceeded  from  the  seat  below. 

"How  long  does  he  generally  sleep?"  whispered  Mr. 
Binny,  rather  anxiously,  having  no  mind  to  be  caught 
even  by  a  spy  in  this  situation. 

"Half  an  hour  at  least;  every  afternoon,  in  fact," 
whispered  Miss  Felling.  "Whatever  you  do,  keep  those 
branches  apart!"  she  entreated. 

Mr.  Binny  did  as  he  was  told,  but  it  was  immediately 
after  Sunday's  lunch  and  his  strained  attitude  would 


I5Q THE  SILENT  LEGION 

have  been  trying  to  an  empty  young  man ;  to  a  middle- 
aged  full  one  it  was  almost  apoplexy. 

Then  Mr.  Montgomery  stirred,  and  Mr.  Binny  sud- 
denly let  go  the  branches.  Miss  Felling  gasped.  They 
waited  in  tense  silence  for  a  space  which  seemed  an 
hour,  but  was  really  just  three  minutes,  and  then 
began  all  over  again. 

"Hush!" 

"Hush!" 

The  branches  once  more  apart — Miss  Felling  once 
more  dangling  the  fish-hook  over  Mr.  Montgomery's 
unconscious  wig  with  a  dexterity  born  of  many  pleasant 
hours  in  Bridlington  Bay. 

"Now!"  whispered  Mr.  Binny. 

Miss  Felling  leaned  far  forward.  The  hook  de- 
scended :  caught.  There  was  a  wild  yell  from  the  little 
gentleman  next  door,  and  an  exceedingly  well-made 
grey  wig  dangled  on  the  line  behind  the  lilac  boughs 
which  Mr.  Binny  had  again  ceased  to  hold  apart. 

In  one  second,  he  and  Miss  Felling  alighted  from  the 
seat,  hid  the  rod  under  the  wall  with  a  dexterity  and 
speed  incredible  in  any  lady  or  gentleman  over  twelve, 
and  sat  down  trying  to  look  calm.  But  in  that  one 
moment  they  had  noticed  the  innocent,  egg-like  bald- 
ness of  Mr.  Montgomery,  and  the  situation  loomed 
perfectly  terrible  before  them.  In  addition  to  the 
pain  in  his  feet,  Mr.  Binny  endured  acute  mental 
agony.  He  considered  what  would  be  said  on  'Change 
during  the  ensuing  week,  and  already  the  ribald  jokes 
of  the  Flodmouth  merchants  seemed  to  be  hurtling 
about  his  ears. 

It  was  then  that  Miss  Felling's  resourcefulness  rose 
to  a  point  far  above  anything  Mr.  Binny  could  have 


THE  AMATEUR  DETECTIVES       151 

imagined.  Jumping  up,  she  called  into  the  next 
garden,  "Oh,  Mr.  Montgomery!  I  have  had  such  a 
shock.  I  fear  something  of  yours  has  come  over  the 
wall.  If  you  will  wait  a  moment  I  will  pass  it  back." 

"What's  happened?"  bleated  Mr.  Montgomery, 
holding  his  hand  to  his  scalp  and  still  dazed  by  his 
heavy  after-dinner  nap.  "What's  taken  it?" 

"Perhaps  the  wind,"  suggested  Mr.  Binny. 

"I  can't  understand  how  such  a  thing  could  happen," 
said  Mr.  Montgomery  pathetically,  still  holding  his 
head  with  one  hand  while  he  accepted  the  wig  from 
Miss  Felling  with  the  other.  Then  his  brain  cleared  a 
little.  "And  there  is  no  wind." 

"Perhaps  a — a  bird,"  said  Miss  Felling.  "I  have 
heard  of  magpies  taking  rings,  and  eagles  carrying  off 
babies,  and  so  on." 

"Did  you  see  one?"  said  Mr.  Montgomery,  adjusting 
his  disorganised  wig  as  well  as  he  could.  "This  cer- 
tainly does  seem  as  if  it  might  have  been  torn  by  the 
beak  of  a  strong  bird,  but  I  can  scarcely  think  it 
possible." 

"I  fancied  I  did  see  a — a  something  just  flick  over 
the  wall,"  faltered  Miss  Felling.  Then  it  came  over 
her  all  of  a  sudden  that  she  wasn't  going  to  imperil 
her  immortal  soul  alone.  Mr.  Binny  was  going  to  be 
in  it  too.  "Didn't  you  see  something?"  she  said, 
addressing  him. 

"Y-yes,"  said  Mr.  Binny  reluctantly.  "I  couldn't 
make  out  any — any  particular  plumage,  though." 

"Dear  me !  This  really  is  most  strange,"  said  Mr. 
Montgomery,  immensely  interested  now  that  he  had 
his  wig  on  and  felt  himself  again.  "I  really  must  put 
down  all  the  particulars  at  once  if  you  will  dictate 


152  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

them  exactly  in  your  own  words.  This  episode  will 
form  a  most  valuable  addition  to  the  book  of  reminis- 
cences which  I  am  now  engaged  upon."  He  lowered 
his  voice  confidentially.  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  came 
here  to  obtain  leisure  and  freedom  from  interruption 
in  order  to  complete  my  book.  I  found  this  impossible 
at  home,  owing  to  the  many  claims  on  my  time. 
Having  been  Mayor  of  my  native  town  on  three  occa- 
sions, and  Sheriff  twice,  I  am  naturally  much  engaged 
in  public  matters." 

Mr.  Binny  and  Miss  Felling  did  not  look  at  each 
other.  At  last  Mr.  Binny  said  in  a  subdued  mono- 
tone :  "I  shall  hope  to  buy  a  copy  of  your  book." 

"No,  no.  I  shall  hope  to  send  you  one.  And  I 
may  give  your  names  to  verify  this  most  interesting 
experience?  It  certainly  seems  to  point  to  the  exist- 
ence of  eagles  still  in  this  part  of  Yorkshire.  Perhaps 
at  Scarcliffe " 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  said  Binny  miserably,  "I  think 
Miss  Felling  has  rather  an  objection  to  any  sort  of — 
er — publicity.  I  think  she  would  rather  you  mentioned 
no  names."  He  turned  an  agonised,  beseeching  eye 
on  her.  "Wouldn't  you,  Miss  Felling?" 

She  paused  a  moment,  irresolute.  Here  was  a 
chance  to  pay  him  out  for  all  his  sins  of  omission 
during  many  years.  Then  her  real  liking  for  him  took 
the  upper  hand  once  more.  "I  certainly  should  prefer 
keeping  the  matter  between  ourselves,"  she  said. 
"Any  mention  of  my  name  or  Mr.  Binny's  would  bring 
crowds  of  curious  people  to  gaze  at  our  houses,  and  we 
should  be  deluged  with  inquiries.  I  am  sure  you  will 
see  the  objection  yourself,  Mr.  Montgomery?" 

"A  lady's  privacy  is  very  dear  to  her,"  urged  Mr. 


THE  AMATEUR  DETECTIVES       153 

Binny,  "and  so  many  great  men  have  had  troubles 
with  their  hair.  Delilah  ...  I  mean  Absalom  .  .  ." 

He  mopped  his  brow,  his  voice  trailing  off  into 
silence  under  the  eye  of  Miss  Felling,  and  he  began  to 
grow  angry  with  her — he  began  to  say  to  himself  that 
she  had  led  him  into  this  ridiculous  situation  by  an 
insane  plan  that  only  a  woman 

Then  Mr.  Montgomery  interposed,  not  without 
dignity :  "Of  course,  I  should  never  use  a  lady's  name 
against  her  will,"  and  he  retired  indoors  to  put  his  wig 
straight. 

Almost  immediately  Mr.  Binny  pleaded  pressing 
business  and  went  away  too.  He  did  not  desire  to 
discuss  the  situation.  It  was  to  be  as  if  it  had  not 
taken  place.  But  his  sense  of  justice  obliged  him  to 
say  in  parting:  "The  fellow  is  obviously  perfectly 
respectable."  He  paused  and  added  with  an  effort, 
"The  whole  affair  has  been  extremely  foolish." 

"You  did  what  you  thought  right.  Nobody  can 
do  more  than  that,"  said  Miss  Felling;  and  so  subtly 
steadied  Mr.  Binny's  wobbling  pedestal. 


CHAPTER  X 

A   HOLIDAY 

!ARBARA  was  on  her  knees  doing  the  doorstep, 
when  Mr.  Simpson  went  forth  to  business  with 
that  unfamiliar  sense  of  hurry  created  by  the  picture 
in  his  mind's  eye  of  a  clicking  instrument  upon  which 
he  must  register  his  punctuality  or  unpunctuality.  The 
morning  wind  blowing  through  the  open  door  into  the 
house  and  among  the  heavy  furniture,  was  like  an 
outward  and  visible  sign  of  that  new  freedom  in  the 
Avenue  which  permitted  Barbara  to  do  the  doorstep 
openly.  The  very  scouring  cloth  which  she  waved  at 
her  father  as  he  passed  became  thus  a  flag  of  freedom, 
celebrating  the  release  of  the  Avenue  from  a  thousand 
mean,  petty  conventions. 

But  Mr.  Simpson  could  not  yet  see  it  in  that  way. 
As  he  passed  his  daughter,  his  head  drooped  dismally, 
and  he  was  filled  with  the  odd  sense  of  shame  and 
failure  which  used  to  attack  all  kind,  decent,  middle- 
class  men  of  a  certain  age  when  they  were  no  longer 
able  to  keep  their  women-folk  in  semi-idleness.  It 
remained  a  deep  humiliation  to  him  to  see  his  pretty 
Barbara  doing  the  doorstep,  for  the  hiring  of  some  one 
to  perform  these  tasks  has  been  for  generations  of 
Mr.  Simpsons  the  sign  of  a  place  in  the  world  very 
hardly  won,  and  kept  by  heaven  knows  what  thrift, 

154 


A  HOLIDAY  155 


self-discipline  and  hard  work.  No  one  outside  can 
realise  the  sacrifices  such  middle-class  families  have 
made  to  hide  disgrace,  and  to  keep  clear  of  debt  in 
times-  of  sickness  and  adversity.  And  though  ignoble 
fears  and  a  petty  snobbishness  have  had  their  part  in 
the  struggle,  it  is  not  quite  the  share  outsiders  have 
thought;  for  the  main  thing  has  been  the  pursuit  of 
an  ideal — the  ideal  of  an  upright,  decent  way  of 
living.  .  .  . 

"I  don't  like  to  see  you  doing  that,  Barbara,"  Mr. 
Simpson  said,  as  his  daughter  went  with  him  to  the 
gate. 

She  laughed  gaily,  shaking  her  head  at  him. 

"You  naughty,  old  Father!"  she  said.  "It's  all 
wicked  pride:  you  don't  like  the  Avenue  to  see  me 
doing  it."  She  leaned  over  the  gate  and  waved  her 
scouring-cloth  towards  the  street  this  time.  "That 
for  the  Avenue !" 

Mr.  Simpson  lifted  his  head  from  its  depressed  angle 
and  smiled.  He  had  to,  at  sight  of  so  much  radiant 
independence;  but  all  the  same  he  felt  vaguely  as  if 
he  were  being  carried  away  by  a  tide  against  his  will, 
while  Barbara  rode  willingly  on  the  crest  of  it. 

Barbara  was  making  bread  about  eleven  o'clock. 
Mrs.  Simpson  had  gone  to  see  the  doctor  and  had  not 
yet  returned.  Elsie  looked  up  from  polishing  spoons 
and  fixed  a  keen  eye  on  her  sister,  whose  face  showed 
rather  worn  and  pale  now  she  did  not  know  any  one 
was  watching  her. 

"I  say,  Barbie — you're  a  pretty  Polly  Perkins  kind 
of  beauty — it  won't  do  for  you  to  get  thin  or  you'll 
get  plain,"  said  this  candid  younger  sister. 


156  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"I'm  not  getting  thin,"  said  Barbara. 

"Yes,  you  are :  and  I  know  what  it  is;  you're  work- 
ing yourself  to  death  for  us  all." 

"Nonsense!" 

"Then  what  is  it?  Surely  you're  not  in  love  again. 
You'd  be  a  decent  kid,  Barbara,  if  you'd  only  leave  the 
young  men  alone." 

"I  do !"  said  Barbara  indignantly. 

"Um  .  .  .  then  why  did  you  send  that  box  of  cigs 
to  Miss  Felling's  wounded  soldier?" 

"Elsie,  you  are  a  horrid  girl!  You've  been  poking 
about  in  my  drawers." 

"Ha!  Ha!"  laughed  Elsie  impishly.  "Sold  again! 
I  never  knew  you  had  done.  I  only  guessed  because  I 
heard  you  asked  Dorothy  Bellerby  what  were  the  best 
brands?" 

"Well,  if  you  can't  do  a  kindness  to  a  wounded 
soldier  without "  began  Barbara. 

"Be  calm!"  interrupted  Elsie.  "I  never  meant  it 
was  not  a  noble  thing  to  do.  What  did  he  say  when 
he  wrote  to  thank  you?" 

Barbara  took  up  the  bowl,  placed  it  on  the  fender, 
and  said  shortly,  reluctantly,  with  her  back  turned  to 
Elsie— 

"He  never  did  write.  I  wanted  no  thanks,  of 
course !" 

"Then  why  did  you  send  the  cigs?  Don't  tell  me! 
And  you're  worried  because  you  haven't  received  an 
answer  from  him  though  he  may  be  in  France  by  this 
time  for  all  you  know." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't "  began  Barbara,  when  the 

girls  heard  Mrs.  Simpson  at  the  door  and  ran  out  to 
meet  her. 


A  HOLIDAY  157 


"Well,  what  does  the  doctor  say?" 

"Oh,  I  am  improving;  but  he  was  talking  about 
Elsie  more  than  me.  He  says  she  must  have  a  fort- 
night at  Scarcliffe  before  the  winter  sets  in.  So  I  went 
round  to  Miss  Felling's,  and  that  is  why  I  have  been 
such  a  long  time.  I  thought  she  might  know  of  some 
suitable  place  where  you  two  girls  could  go  alone." 

"But,  Mother,  it  is  absolutely  impossible  for  me  to 
go,"  said  Barbara.  "You  take  Elsie,  and  I  will  look 
after  Father." 

"No,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson.  "You  can't  do  the 
work  of  this  house  all  the  winter- unless  you  have  a 
change.  You  have  looked  quite  worn  and  pale  lately 
with  working  so  hard  in  the  hot  weather." 

"Then  even  you  noticed  that,  Mother?"  said  Elsie 
eagerly. 

Mrs.  Simpson  looked  at  her  younger  daughter  with 
whimsical  affection — as  if  a  look  or  shadow  on  their 
faces  escaped  her!  And  yet  she  had  managed  to  let 
!hem  feel  themselves  so  free.  .  .  . 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  said.  Then  she  turned  to  Barbara. 
6<I  want  you  to  go.  Miss  Felling  knows  of  a  soldier's 
widow  who  will  come  for  a  fortnight — a  thoroughly 
nice  girl  who  lived  with  some  friends  of  hers — so  that 
is  all  right !" 

"But  we  can't  afford  it;  can  we?"  hesitated 
Barbara. 

"Oh  yes,  we  can !" 

And  Mrs.  Simpson  smiled  at  her  girls  with  a  deep 
joy  in  her  look  that  they  remembered  it  long  after;  but 
they  never  knew  what  gave  her  smile  that  particular 
radiance.  It  was  because  she  had  a  little  money  of  her 
very  own  saved  to  buy  a  warm  winter  coat;  and  the 


THE  SILENT  LEGION 


joy  of  being  able  to  give  them  it  was  so  keen  —  a 
keenness  of  joy  in  pain  like  that  felt  by  the  mother 
bird  who  pecks  the  feathers  from  her  own  breast  to 
shelter  her  young,  and  resembling  none  other  on 
earth. 

Elsie  glanced  at  her  sister  in  secret  surprise.  She 
could  hardly  believe  that  Barbara  was  really  contem- 
plating going  to  Scarcliffe. 

"Mother,  we  can't  go  and  leave  you  like  this,"  she 
protested. 

"You'll  have  to,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson.  "I  asked  Miss 
Felling  to  go  in  at  once  and  see  Mr.  Montgomery  about 
the  rooms." 

"Mr.  Montgomery!  The  old  chap  with  the  wig!" 
said  Elsie.  "Surely  he  doesn't  let  lodgings  at 
Scarcliffe?" 

"No,  but  he  has  an  elderly  cousin  who  does.  I 
believe  it  was  hearing  about  her  really  made  me  so 
anxious  for  you  to  go.  Miss  Felling  was  talking  about 
her  last  night  and  saying  how  highly  Mr.  Montgomery 
recommended  her.  I  should  hardly  have  cared  for 
two  girls  to  go  alone  to  ordinary  rooms  with  so  many 
soldiers  about  the  place." 

"What  old-fashioned  ideas  you  have,  Mother," 
laughed  Elsie.  "But  I  say,  it  does  seem  rum  for  us 
to  owe  our  holiday  in  a  way  to  old  Wiggy,  doesn't  it? 
You  never  know  who  is  going  to  take  a  hand  in  things, 
do  you  ?" 

But  Mrs.  Simpson  and  Barbara  were  in  no  mood  for 
abstract  speculation. 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  leave  you,  Mother,"  said 
Barbara  again  —  only  so  half-heartedly  that  even  Mrs. 
Simpson  felt  a  little  secret  astonishment  at  her  read?- 


A  HOLIDAY  159 


ness  to  go.  For  no  mother,  however  loving,  can  remem- 
ber her  own  girlhood's  emotions  with  '  sufficient 
intensity  to  see  them  as  they  are  in  her  daughters — 
she  is  bound  to  look  at  them  through  the  wide  end  of 
the  telescope.  So  though  Mrs.  Simpson  remained  very 
young  at  heart,  she  could  not  have  credited  the  whirl 
of  thought  and  feeling  in  which  Barbara  packed  to  go 
to  cheap  lodgings  in  Scarcliffe. 

The  two  sisters  sat  facing  each  other  in  the  railway 
train — Elsie  with  her  back  to  the  engine,  because  she 
had  unfortunately  caught  a  slight  cold  in  the  change 
from  glorious  dry  weather  to  a  spell  of  cold  and  wet, 
and  Barbara  silent,  thinking  of  her  mother  on  the  plat- 
form as  they  said  good-bye,  and  assailed  by  a  pricking 
sense  of  self-reproach  which  was  not  less  uncomfort- 
able for  being  rather  indefinite.  She  ought  to  have 
insisted  more  on  her  mother  coming  instead  of  her- 
self. .  .  .  No,  it  would  have  been  no  use.  .  .  .  Yes, 
if  she  had  insisted  enough,  perhaps  it  might.  .  .  .  Why 
on  earth  hadn't  she  ? 

But  she  knew  where  the  answer  to  that  question 
waited  if  she  would  dive  down  to  seek  it — only  she 
wouldn't.  She  was  afraid  of  that  force  within  herself 
which  seemed  to  be  making  her  trample  down  all  the 
small  barriers  of  will  and  conscience  between  her  and 
Scarcliffe,  because  she  was  sub-consciously  aware  that 
it  would  have  taken  her  in  the  same  manner  across 
barriers  far  more  important.  She  only  knew,  officially, 
that  she  was  "mad  to  get  to  Scarcliffe"  as  Elsie  phrased 
it,  and  would  not  allow,  even  to  herself,  that  she  was 
fiercely  bent  on  tracking  Brooke  and  finding  him  before 
he  went  to  France. 


160  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

Then  across  this  ferment  of  hidden  feeling,  with  the 
light  play  and  sparkle  on  top  of  it,  of  her  holiday  mood 
which  became  more  defined  as  the  train  neared  its 
destination,  came  the  sound  at  a  railway  station  of  a 
band  playing  off  a  draft.  Her  emotions  were  so  active 
that  the  sound  swept  her  along  in  a  sudden  burst  of 
pride  and  patriotism.  She  hung  out  of  the  carriage 
window,  waving  and  shouting :  "Good  luck !"  with 
the  tears  standing  in  her  eyes.  How  splendid!  How 
splendid !  And  then  the  heart-gripping  thought — How 
many  will  come  back?  Then  she  sat  down  again  as 
the  train  moved  off;  and  it  was  incredibly  the  over- 
strung, excitable  Elsie  who  had  to  say  to  her :  "Bar- 
bara, how  can  you  go  on  like  that?  You're  like  a 
maidservant  out  for  a  spree.  Do  keep  quiet !" 

"I  can't  sit  like  a  log  with  those  boys  going  off  to 
fight  for  us,  if  you  can,"  said  Barbara  hotly.  But  she 
was  a  little  ashamed  as  she  dried  her  eyes  and  stood  up 
to  straighten  her  hat  before  the  oblong  piece  of  glass 
in  the  railway  carriage,  though  every  fibre  of  her 
seemed  to  be  aflame  and  vibrating  with  patriotic 
fervour,  and  she  felt  fiercely  that,  whatever  Elsie  said, 
she  was  ready  that  minute  to  die  for  England.  Then 
she  suddenly  thrust  her  face  nearer  to  the  glass  and 
her  bright  eyes  shot  out  beams  of  apprehension — 
there  was  a  pimple  on  her  chin!  Instinct  jumped, 
quivering,  to  the  knowledge  that  this  might  hinder 
her  in  the  quest  of  which  she  declined  to  be  conscious. 
The  pimple  was  a  nearer  and  more  vital  thing  at  that 
moment  than  all  the  vague  glory  of  the  moment  before, 
when  she  had  waved  the  soldiers  farewell. 

She  sat  down  again,  saying  anxiously:  "Elsie,  I 
have  an  awful  spot  coming  on  my  chin." 


A  HOLIDAY  161 


"Badness  coming  out,"  said  Elsie  carelessly. 
"Goodness  me,  Barbara,  I  do  wish  you'd  sit  still  for 
a  minute.  You're  like  a  cat  on  hot  cinders.  I  never 
knew  you  so  fidgety  before.  It's  generally  me  that 
gets  excited  while  you  keep  as  calm  as  a  cucumber." 

"I  suppose  I  want  a  holiday,"  murmured  Barbara, 
and  she  forced  herself  to  sit  still  for  the  remainder  of 
the  journey. 

They  were  settled  in  their  lodgings,  and  Elsie  sat 
by  the  fire  which  the  landlady  had  lighted,  for  she, 
too,  was  suffering  from  a  cold  owing  to  the  change  of 
weather. 

"Sticks  bust  be  damp,"  Mrs.  Clarke  remarked  fret- 
fully, poking  a  piece  of  paper  between  the  bars.  "I 
can't  understand  eddybody  coming  to  Scarcliffe  that 
could  go  on  to  the  South  Coast;  but  my  cousin,  Mr. 
Montgomery,  lets  me  have  this  house  rent  free,  so  I 
stay  here." 

"Atchee !"  sneezed  Elsie.  "There,  I'm  getting  worse 
you  see.  I  might  just  as  well  have  gone  out  with 
Barbara,  after  all." 

"You  were  too  tired,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke  unanswer- 
ably. 

There  followed  a  silence.  Mrs.  Clarke  sank  herself 
in  a  newspaper  and  Elsie  read  a  book  which  she  had 
brought  from  the  Flodmouth  Free  Library.  At  last 
Mrs.  Clarke  looked  up  at  the  clock. 

"It's  half-past  nine;  time  your  sister  was  in,  with 
all  these  soldiers  about.  She  said  she  was  just  going 
to  run  out  for  half  an  hour.  Have  you  any  friends 
stopping  in  the  place?" 

"No,"  said  Elsie :  then  she  remembered  Brooke,  who 


162 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

had  not  been  mentioned  at  all  when  the  plans  were 
being  made  for  coming  to  Scarcliffe,  but  of  whom  Mrs. 
Simpson  had  said  on  the  railway  platform  casually: 
"Perhaps  you  will  see  little  Kitchener's  friend."  And 
Barbara  had  replied  with  equal  carelessness:  "Oh, 
I  daresay  he  has  gone  off  to  France  by  this  time." 
Now  Elsie  said  to  Mrs.  Clarke,  "Why,  yes,  we  do 
know  one  soldier  who  was  stationed  here;  but  I  don't 
expect  he  is  here  still." 

"Officer,  of  course?"  said  Mrs.  Clarke. 

"No.    Private,"  said  Elsie. 

The  conversation  again  lapsed.  Mrs.  Clarke  was  a 
fat  woman  with  a  fine  white  skin  that  had  gone  a  little 
grey  to  match  her  hair,  protruding  false  teeth  and  a 
fluffy,  grey  shawl;  her  remarkable  resemblance  to  a 
tame  rabbit  was  increased  in  some  subtle  way  by  the 
cold  in  her  head.  At  ten  o'clock,  the  grating,  throaty 
chime  of  the  clock  whirred  through  the  room.  She 
glared  puffily  at  the  white  dial  and  then  at  Elsie. 

"Not  in  yet?" 

"It  is  easy  to  mistake  the  time  when  you  are  out 
walking,"  said  Elsie.  "Do  you  want  to  go  to  bed? 
I  can  easily  sit  up  for  my  sister." 

"Certainly  not.  I  was  asked  to  look  after  you  like 
young  relatives  of  my  own,  and  I  shall  do  so  as  far  as 
possible.  Of  course  no  one  has  any  control  over  the 
girls  of  the  present  day."  She  paused  and  added,  for 
she  was  deeply  curious  like  so  many  stupid  people: 
"Was  there  anything  between  your  sister  and  this 
young  man  ?" 

"Which  young  man  ?"  said  Elsie  flippantly.  "She's 
had  lots.  Quite  a  one  for  the  boys,  is  our  Barbara." 

Having  given  this  misleading  piece  of  information 


A  HOLIDAY  163 


Elsie  continued  her  book.  Mrs.  Clarke  meditated 
muzzily,  sniffing  eucalyptus,  then  she  pronounced  the 
nett  result  of  her  reflections :  "I  suppose  you  under- 
stood that  I  do  not  receive  young  men  visitors  at  this 
house?"  She  was  not  going  to  have  her  residence 
turned  into  a  meeting-place  for  a  flighty  girl  and  her 
admirers,  that  she  did  know :  and  she  blinked  heavily 
at  Elsie. 

"I'm  sure  we  don't  want  you  to,"  said  Elsie  light- 
heartedly.  "Oh,  here's  Barbara  at  last!" 

They  turned  expectantly  towards  the  door,  but  when 
it  was  flung  hastily  back  Barbara  paused  for  a  moment 
blinking  stupidly,  blinded  by  the  full  light  after  the 
darkness  outside,  and  choked  by  the  heat  and  eucalyp- 
tus fumes  on  coming  in  from  the  cool  sea  air. 

"Well,  this  is  a  nice  time  of  night,"  said  Elsie. 
"Mrs.  Clarke  began  to  think  you  had  eloped  with  some 
soldier  or  other." 

"Why,  what  time  is  it?"  said  Barbara. 

"Long  after  ten,"  pronounced  Mrs.  Clarke,  her 
speech  not  blunted  but  rather  edged  by  a  confusion  of 
b's  and  p's. 

"After  ten !    Oh,  it  can't  be,"  said  Barbara. 

"You  must  have  been  spending  your  time  very 
pleasantly.  Did  you  find  your  soldier  friend?"  said 
Mrs.  Clarke. 

To  Elsie's  surprise  Barbara  flushed  crimson. 

"I  came  across  a  man  we  know,  when  I  was 
listening  to  the  band.  I  went  for  a  little  walk  on  the 
cliff.  The  moon  came  out.  I  had  no  idea  it  was 
after  nine." 

"Well,  with  some  girls  I  should  have  expected  it," 
said  Mrs.  Clarke,  "but  my  cousin  told  me  you  were 


164 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

exactly  the  opposite  of  that."  She  paused,  filling  a 
cup  with  cocoa.  "I  have  kept  this  hot  for  you.  Of 
course  I  have  no  responsibility.  But  as  I  have  just 
told  your  sister,  I  do  not  expect  to  see  young  men 
visitors  at  this  house.  I  am  a  very  quiet  person,  and 
I  can't  be  bothered  with  them.  In  addition  to  which 
my  permanent  lodger,  Mrs.  Scrope,  would  be  very 
much  upset.  She  dislikes  the  smell  of  tobacco." 

"She'll  soon  have  to  go  to  another  world  if  she 
wants  to  get  out  of  that  smell,"  said  Elsie.  "Perhaps 
she  is  very  old?" 

"Hush,  Elsie!"  said  Barbara,  then  she  added  to 
Mrs.  Clarke:  "I'm  very  sorry  to  have  made  you 
uneasy.  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  dabbing  her  nose,  "I 
suppose  we  have  all  been  young  once." 

But  it  seemed  incredible  to  the  two  girls  that  this 
rabbity  bundle  of  female  humanity  could  ever  have 
walked  with  a  young  man  in  the  moonlight. 

"Good-night,  Mrs.  Clarke,"  said  Barbara.  Her 
voice  sounded  very  clear  and  her  eyes  seemed  filled 
with  the  fresh  darkness  of  the  summer  night,  her  face 
bloomed  like  a  cool  flower  in  that  hot,  little  room. 

"Good-night,  Miss  Simpson,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke. 
"And  do  remember  the  thinness  of  the  walls,  please. 
Mrs.  Scrope  once  distinctly  heard  a  lady  in  the  room 
where  you  are  sleeping  ask  her  husband  how  his  corns 
were." 

"Well,  we  haven't  any  corns,  at  any  rate,"  said 
Elsie. 

"Of  course  we  will  be  careful,  Mrs.  Clarke,"  said 
Barbara. 

Then  the  two  girls  ran  upstairs  hand  in  hand, 


A  HOLIDAY  165 


subduing  their  laughter  until  the  bedroom  door  was 
shut. 

"Oh,  Barbara!" 

"Oh,  Elsie!  Do  be  quiet!  Think  of  the  tobacco- 
hating  lady  next  door." 

Upon  which  they  laughed  again,  pressing  handker- 
chiefs upon  their  lips  and  rejoicing  in  the  comicality  of 
something  not  comical  at  all,  after  that  fashion  of 
youth  which  age  scorns  because  it  only  sees  the  silly 
seeming  outside,  and  has  forgotten  the  exquisite  sense 
of  fun  and  jollity  that  used  to  lie  beneath. 

"I  say,  what  a  lark  your  coming  across  Brooke!" 
said  Elsie.  "I  suppose  he  is  in  khaki  now.  Does  he 
look  very  different?" 

Like  a  picture,  only  more  vivid  than  any  picture,  the 
lean,  alert  figure  of  Brooke  with  his  dark  eyes  shining 
out  of  his  lined  face  as  he  came  towards  her  in  the 
bright  moonlight  appeared  once  more  before  Barbara. 
But  the  sense  of  achievement  and  satisfaction — of 
finding  at  last  what  every  fibre  of  her  body  was  tensely 
waiting  for — that  could  never  come  back  again,  because 
memory  can  only  hold  the  echo  of  emotion. 

"No,"  she  said  casually,  "he  looks  much  the  same." 

"Well,  I  shall  always  remember  him  best  in  that 
red,  white  and  blue  affair ;  it  seemed  to  suit  him,"  said 
Elsie.  "When  is  he  going  out  to  France  ?" 

"In  about  a  week,  he  expects." 

"Then  we  were  only  just  in  time  to  find  him  here  ?" 

"Yes." 

That  was  all  Barbara  said  about  it,  and  she  imme- 
diately began  to  make  fun  of  the  lodgings  again :  but 
at  Elsie's  words  a  sudden  shock  of  fear,  such  as  comes 
at  the  mention  of  a  vital  danger  only  just  surmounted, 


i66 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

made  her  tremble  a  little.  He  had  so  very  nearly  gone 
out  of  her  life  before  she  could  reach  him.  And  yet 
she  did  not  realise  what  she  thought,  because  thought 
was  in  abeyance  and  feeling  had  usurped  its  place. 
She  only  knew  that  she  was  looking  forward  to  her 
stay  here  with  intense  pleasure.  She  was  filled  with 
an  acute  sense  of  the  dancing  waves  and  the  sharpness 
of  the  sweet  air  and  the  intensified  beauty  of  every- 
thing round  her.  It  was  not  first  a  bird's  glow  of  new 
plumage  at  the  approach  of  love,  but  the  human  miracle 
of  a  whole  world  putting  on  glory  in  the  eyes  of  a  lover. 

When  the  throaty  clock — to  which  it  did  seem 
strange  the  particular  permanent  lodger  had  not  taken 
exception — chimed  the  hour  of  twelve  through  the 
house,  everyone  save  Barbara  was  fast  asleep. 

She  lay  awake  with  the  window  a  little  open,  and 
the  waves  sounded  very  plainly.  Swi-sh!  Swi-sh! 
Swi-sh!  went  on  the  shingly  beach  outside.  The 
green  curtains  had  been  drawn  back  and  a  twilight  of 
the  moon  came  through  the  linen  blinds:  it  was  an 
exquisite  light,  just  made  for  waking  dreams.  And  yet 
Barbara  was  not  dreaming.  She  was  in  that  strange, 
happy  state  of  suspended  thought  which  comes  before 
dreams  begin. 


CHAPTER  XI 

SEA-WIND 

THE  little  sitting-room  without  a  sea-view  in  which 
the  girls  were  cheaply  accommodated,  rather  as 
a  favour  to  Mr.  Montgomery  than  as  a  means  of  profit, 
was  this  afternoon  warmer  and  more  scented  by 
eucalyptus  than  ever,  for  Elsie  had  developed  a  cold 
to  match  Mrs.  Clarke's,  and  they  sat  sniffing  in  turns 
on  either  side  of  a  small  fire.  Barbara  stood  by  the 
table  with  a  book  under  her  arm. 

"Anything  else  I  can  do  for  you?  Poor  old  girl, 
it  is  hard  lines!"  And  Barbara  said  it  all  the  more 
emphatically  because  she  was  really  glad  that  Elsie 
had  a  cold.  She  did  not  acknowledge  this,  of  course, 
but  she  had  a  half-remorseful  consciousness  of  it. 
First,  Mrs.  Simpson,  then  Elsie  .  .  .  but  she  would 
have  pushed  aside  Mr.  Simpson  too  had  he  stood  in 
the  way.  For  the  time  being  there  was  only  one  clear 
purpose  in  her  life;  she  had  to  go  out  alone  at  those 
hours  when  she  could  see  Brooke.  She  must  walk  with 
him  and  talk  with  him  and  meet  every  now  and  then 
those  ardent  eyes  that  quickened  her  into  such  a  vibrat- 
ing sense  of  being  gloriously  alive.  But  she  still  told 
herself — and  half  believed — that  the  change  to  sea  air 
and  sunshine  had  caused  her  joyful  exhilaration, 
though  some  depth  within  her  knew  it  would  have  been 

167 


168 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

just  the  same  in  one  of  those  slums,  smelling  of  fish 
and  beer  and  tar,  which  linger  still  in  old  Flodmouth. 
For  it  was  indeed  a  wind  of  the  spirit  that  had  blown 
across  her  as  she  went  along  the  sands  that  evening  by 
Brooke's  side  at  the  edge  of  the  little  waves;  though 
she  also  thrilled  with  the  physical  passion  which  is  the 
other  half  of  true  love. 

So  now  she  was  sorry  for  Elsie  on  the  surface  as 
she  stood  there  with  the  library  book  in  her  hand; 
and  she  was  really  like  a  homing  pigeon  straining  to 
be  released. 

"Then  there's  nothing  else?"  she  said,  making  her- 
self pause  another  minute.  "You  wouldn't  care  for 
me  to  stay  in  too,  Elsie?" 

"Don't  be  an  idiot !"  said  Elsie.  "You  might  bring 
me  a  few  peppermints,  if  you  liked;  they're  comfort- 
ing." And  she  added,  drawing  a  shawl  closer  round 
her :  "Oh,  dear,  this  is  a  holiday !" 

"Poor  old  Elsie!"  repeated  Barbara,  fidgeting  with 
the  door  handle.  "Anything  for  you,  Mrs.  Clarke?" 

"Thank  you,  I'm  nearly  run  out  of  eucalyptus," 
said  Mrs.  Clarke.  "And  if  you  could  see  a  bit  of  fresh 
fish  anywhere.  Fish  would  be  nice  and  light  for 
supper." 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Barbara.    "Good-bye !" 

She  breathed  deeply  as  she  shut  the  door  like  a 
person  thankful  to  escape,  then  hurried  down  the 
passage  and  out  into  the  street  lest  she  should  be  called 
back  for  further  commissions. 

Mrs.  Clarke  looked  across  at  Elsie,  her  eyes  round 
and  watery,  her  nose-end  pink,  her  resemblance  to  a 
tame  rabbit  with  an  inquisitive  mind  more  pronounced 
than  ever. 


SEA-WIND  169 


"Off  after  that  young  man  again!'*  she  said,  with 
a  sort  of  placid  vindictiveness. 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,"  said  Elsie  abruptly.  "Bar- 
bara is  not  like  that."  And  she  was  all  the  more  sharp 
because  the  idea  had  occurred  to  herself. 

"They're  all  like  that  when  they  come  to  Scar- 
cliffe,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke.  "Soldiers  and  sands  mixed, 
seem  to  go  to  their  heads.  I  don't  know  why  it  is  so, 
but  it  is,"  and  she  sniffed  again. 

"You're  quite  mistaken,"  said  Elsie,  and  she  sniffed 
also  before  returning  to  her  book,  so  there  was  a  certain 
bond  between  them  which  made  the  situation  support- 
able, and  Mrs.  Clarke  was  very  kind  in  the  way  of 
creature  comforts  that  afternoon. 

Barbara  meanwhile  walked  briskly  along  the  sea- 
front  to  the  main  street  where  the  shops  were  situated, 
and  was  fortunate  enough  to  secure  the  desired  book 
and  the  peppermints.  Carrying  these  in  a  bag,  she 
returned  at  once  to  the  cliff  edge  and  ran  down  the 
steps  which  led  to  the  beach.  Then  she  began  to  walk 
slowly,  loitering  by  the  edge  of  the  incoming  tide, 
picking  up  bits  of  seaweed  and  letting  them  fall,  seek- 
ing flat  stones  with  which  to  make  ducks  and  drakes 
on  the  water.  At  last  she  saw  an  erect,  lean  figure  in 
khaki  coming  towards  her,  and  even  at  that  distance, 
and  in  spite  of  the  heavy  sand  which  caused  his  step 
to  be  laboured  instead  of  briskly  alert,  she  knew  it 
was  Brooke.  Her  whole  being  leapt  to  the  recognition 
before  she  had  time  to  think:  "That  is  he!"  But 
she  stood  quite  still  facing  the  waves  until  he  came  up 
behind  her.  Then  she  turned  round. 

"Could  you  see  me  a  long  way  off  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  from  the  end  of  the  Parade.     You  stood  so 


17Q THE  SILENT  LEGION 

still  I  thought  you'd  turned  into  a  clump  of  sea-lavender 
before  my  very  eyes." 

"Oh!  Why?"  She  glanced  at  him,  looking  side- 
ways and  half  smiling,  not  thinking  at  all  what  she  said. 

"Because  nymphs  always  did  turn  into  something 
like  that  when  they  were  pursued.  It  was  the  proper 
thing  for  a  nymph  to  do,  and  I  knew  you'd  try  to  do 
the  proper  thing." 

She  glanced  at  him  doubtfully. 

"Don't  you?" 

"Don't  I  what?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"Why,  want  to  do  the  proper  thing." 

"Depends." 

"What  on?"  she  said,  moving  a  pebble  with  her 
foot. 

"How  much  I  want  to  do  the  other  thing.*' 

They  laughed  together,  the  utter  futility  of  their 
talk  in  some  queer  way  making  it  all  the  more  delight- 
ful to  them — perhaps  because  it  thus  interfered  less 
with  unspoken  conversation  they  were  holding,  and 
which  was  so  exquisitely  enjoyable.  Their  laughter 
had  a  pleasant  sound  there — young  laughter  on  the 
sea's  edge — and  her  girl's  rippling  tone  was  the  comple- 
ment of  his  deeper  one. 

"Well,  you  broke  your  rule  when  you  came  to  that 
Cinema  Show  with  me,"  he  said.  "I've  often  won- 
dered— you  being  you — what  made  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  You  looked  Iqnely."  She  paused 
and  glanced  up  at  him  with  her  sweet  face  grave.  "I 
think  since  Jim  went  I  somehow  feel  as  if  all  soldiers 
were  brothers  of  mine  too." 

He  drew  nearer,  touching  her  arm. 

"Dear  little  girl  ...   I  believe  that  is  the  explana- 


SEA-WIND  171 


tion.  There  never  was  anybody  like  you,  Barbara." 
He  paused.  "But  I  don't  feel  like  a  brother,  you 
know." 

For  a  moment — the  briefest  second  of  time — 
Barbara  thought  of  that  other  girl  whom  he  had  loved 
and  who  had  died  out  there  in  Canada.  He  must  have 
said  there  was  no  girl  like  her,  once,  of  course.  Then 
the  moment  passed.  She  was  glad  he  had  lived  all 
his  years  and  not  hidden  in  safety,  afraid  of  life.  But 
for  that  brief  space  .  .  . 

And  as  if  in  consequence  of  it,  he  said  gravely — 

"I'd  been  very  lonely  before  I  met  you.  A  man 
is  lonelier,  I  believe,  when  he  has  been  married.  She 
was  so  splendid — my  poor  little  wife;  but  I  ought 
never  to  have  taken  her  out  there.  She  was  meant 
for  a  sheltered  life  in  a  country  parsonage  in  England. 
She  could  have  stood  that  all  right;  but  it  was  the 
unsheltered  bigness  of  everything  that  broke  her  heart. 
She  hated  the  prairie  and  the  wind  blowing  across  it. 
She  hated  everything  in  Alberta.  And  now  I  have  a 
piece  of  land  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rockies,  in  the 
fruit-growing  country  where  the  climate  is  fine.  The 
trees  were  just  coming  to  their  best  when  I  left,  and  I 
had  to  put  a  man  in  charge.  But  I'm  afraid  she  might 
not  have  cared  much  for  that  either.  She  wanted 
green  lanes  and  home.  At  the  last  she  used  to  cry 
when  she  heard  the  wind." 

As  Barbara  listened  she  felt  a  pang  at  her  heart. 
It  was  like  hearing  about  a  little  friend  for  whom 
life  had  been  too  hard,  and  the  shadow  of  jealousy 
lifted  and  passed  away.  But  she  could  not  find  any- 
thing to  say,  and  they  walked  on  a  few  steps  in 
silence. 


172 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"I  never  talk  about  that  time."  He  broke  the  silence 
with  an  effort.  "Only  I  felt  I  should  like  to  tell  you. 
I  don't  suppose  I  shall  mention  it  again." 

Her  quick  mind  leapt  responsive ;  she  knew  perfectly 
well  that  he  was  closing  a  door  on  memories  that  a 
decent  man  keeps  sacred. 

"No  ...  of  course.  .  .  ."  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  sea. 

But  he  was  sure  of  her  understanding  because  their 
spirits  had  just  then  spoken  most  intimately  together — 
in  the  way  that  nearly  all  conversations  of  a  personal 
nature  that  matter  deeply  are  spoken,  when  such  words 
as  do  come  are  rather  by  way  of  punctuation,  showing 
pauses  and  the  end. 

After  a  while  they  noticed  the  flowing  tide  getting 
near  to  the  cliffs,  and  saw  they  must  return  unless  they 
wished  to  spend  several  hours  between  sand  and  sky 
on  a  precarious  edge  of  rock.  In  speaking  of  this,  the 
current  of  their  thoughts  changed,  and  as  they  walked 
back  to  the  Parade,  talking  easily  about  anything  that 
came  into  their  minds,  Barbara  experienced  that  most 
delightful  sense  of  ease  and  freedom  which  a  girl  often 
knows  just  before  her  lover  declares  himself.  She  is 
so  certain  everything  she  says  must  be  charming  and 
right  because  she  says  it,  and  yet  she  has  not  been 
told  so,  even  by  her  own  heart.  This  time  is  so  brief 
that  many  forget  it  afterwards  in  thinking  of  love 
but  it  has  the  tender,  evanescent  loveliness  of  a  flower 
opening  and  not  yet  open,  of  a  butterfly  just  fluttering 
out  to  meet  the  sunshine.  .  .  . 

So  they  walked  together  and  told  each  other  all 
sorts  of  things  with  no  more  effort  than  the  waves 
rippling  on  the  sand.  The  strange  influence  which 


SEA-WIND  173 


makes  people  tell  in  that  hour  what  they  have  kept  to 
themselves  all  their  lives  was  not  less  powerful  in 
Brooke  through  having  experienced  it  before,  because 
an  eternal  newness  in  love  is  part  of  the  economy  of 
nature.  And  Barbara  confided  to  him  her  inmost 
thoughts  and  hopes  and  affairs  with  the  abandon  which 
those  know  best  who  have  always — beneath  a  surface 
frankness — been  rather  reserved ;  the  shallow  trickling 
confidences  of  the  habitually  expansive  are  not  to  be 
compared  with  this  stream. 

At  the  end  of  the  afternoon  Barbara  parted  from 
her  undeclared  lover  in  a  glow  of  deepest  happiness. 
She  felt  so  much  nearer  in  spirit  to  another  human 
being  than  she  had  ever  thought  possible.  They  were 
both  so  wrought  on  by  this  afternoon  hour  that  they 
believed  themselves  on  the  verge  of  escaping  forever 
from  the  loneliness  of  spirit  which  is  human  life. 

"You'll  come  out  again  after  supper?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  can't!    Poor  Elsie!" 

"Then  may  I  come  in  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"So  sorry.  Mrs.  Clarke's  permanent  lodger  seems 
to  object  to  gentlemen  callers.  Isn't  it  ridiculous?" 

"Then  you'll  come  to-morrow  afternoon?"  he  said. 
"To-morrow's  Sunday.  After  to-morrow  I  can  only 
be  certain  of  an  hour  or  two  in  the  evening  and  not 
always  that.  Won't  you  come,  Barbara  ?" 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  called  her  Barbara. 

"I  will  if  I  can.  I'll  try.  I  don't  know."  She 
stood  poised,  ready  to  go,  the  lovely  colour  creeping 
over  her  face. 

"I  shall  wait  on  that  seat  at  the  end  of  the  Parade 
all  the  afternoon," 


174  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Oh,  don't!" 

He  looked  at  her  very  directly,  smiling,  and  yet  with 
something  behind  the  smile  which  she  dared  not 
disregard. 

"I  won't  if  you  really  would  rather  not." 

"Oh!    You  know." 

She  turned  and  ran  up  the  steps  into  the  tall  house 
fronting  the  Parade. 

Elsie  looked  round,  blinking  her  eyes  and  holding 
her  book  with  one  finger  inside,  after  the  fashion  of 
the  born  bookworm. 

"Well,  you  have  been  a  long  time — thought  you  were 
going  to  be  late  for  supper." 

"Got  the  fish?"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  bustling  into  the 
room. 

"Got  everything!"  laughed  Barbara.  And,  indeed, 
she  felt  she  had;  the  world  was  hers  and  the  fulness 
of  it. 

The  Sunday  midday  dinner  was  over  and  Mrs. 
Clarke  rested  from  her  weekly  row  with  the  permanent 
lodger,  who  presented  the  usual  combination  of  perma- 
nence and  less  endearing  characteristics.  Elsie  gazed 
wistfully  at  the  little  garden  behind  the  house  and 
thought  how  beautiful  the  sunshine  must  be  on  the  sea. 

"It  seems  to  have  turned  warmer  since  yesterday," 
she  said.  "Don't  you  think  I  might  go  out  for  a 
walk?" 

"Not  after  staying  indoors  all  the  morning,"  said 
Barbara  quickly. 

"But  it  is  so  warm  now,"  pleaded  Elsie. 

Mrs.  Clarke  looked  up. 


SEA-WIND  175: 


"Don't  be  so  foolish!  You  might  get  pneumonia, 
and  a  nice  thing  that  would  be  in  war-time  with  all  the 
doctors  so  busy." 

"I  want  to  go,"  said  Elsie.  "What  do  you  really 
think,  Barbara  ?" 

Barbara  did  not  speak.  She  could  not,  to  be  plain, 
because  of  that  ridiculous  throbbing  at  her  heart. 

Elsie  sighed  and  sat  down  again. 

"Oh,  well!  I  don't  want  to  do  anything  mad,  of 
course."  She  glanced  aside  at  Barbara,  who  still  stood 
by  the  window.  "You  going?" 

"I  think  I  shall  take  a  turn." 

"Do.  No  use  our  both  stopping  indoors,"  urged 
Elsie  generously;  and  Barbara  felt  almost  impelled  to 
offered  her  sister  company — almost  but  not  quite,  for 
fear  the  offer  should  be  accepted. 

"Good-bye,  old  girl,  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said;  and 
she  went  out,  ashamed  that  she  was  not  sorry. 

But  before  she  reached  the  end  of  the  row  of  houses 
all  regrets  had  vanished,  and  she  was  only  glad  that 
any  chance  on  earth — even  the  spoiling  of  poor  Elsie's 
holiday — had  given  her  this  glorious  afternoon  alone 
with  Brooke.  For  the  time  being  she  was  utterly 
selfish,  like  many  another  kind-hearted  girl  in  love, 
at  whom  people  look  astonished,  unable  to  understand 
the  change. 

As  Barbara  crossed  the  road  she  saw  Brooke  sitting 
on  a  seat  in  the  distance,  in  the  attitude  of  alert  repose 
which  belongs  only  to  strength  of  mind  and  muscle; 
but  before  she  reached  the  entrance  to  the  Parade 
he  had  risen  and  hastened  forward  to  meet  her.  They 
walked  fast  and  spoke  rather  disjointedly  until  the 
long  stretch  of  grey- white  promenade  between  the  sea 


176  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

and  the  tall  houses  merged  into  a  rough  path  on  the 
top  of  the  cliff,  then  they  slackened  their  pace  and 
began  to  look  at  each  other  between  the  trivial  sen- 
tences, taking  up,  where  they  had  left  off,  the  wonder- 
ful unspoken  conversation  of  yesterday. 

At  last  they  were  a  mile  beyond  the  town.  The 
band,  tootling  under  the  glass  dome,  could  no  longer 
be  heard  at  all.  A  couple  of  soldiers  passed  them, 
glanced  with  a  wink  at  Brooke,  and  went  on.  Faintly 
on  the  light  breeze  came  a  whistling  chorus:  "Who's 
your  lady  friend?"  But  it  just  meant  a  jolly  sense  of 
comradeship  on  that  glorious  summer  Sunday  after- 
noon. He'd  got  a  pretty  girl — they  only  wished  gaily 
that  they  were  in  the  same  boat — but  he  was  one  of 
themselves  and  had  a  right  to  love  and  beauty. 

That  was  what  the  whistling  conveyed,  and  it  merged 
happily  enough  with  the  birds'  singing  through  the 
boom  of  the  sea. 

"Shall  we  take  this  field-path?"  said  Brooke. 

"Yes,  I  like  walking  by  the  edge  of  the  corn,"  said 
Barbara. 

She  wore  a  white  dress  crisply  washed  and  a  plain 
straw  hat  with  a  red  ribbon  in  it:  there  were  also  red 
poppies  among  the  corn  which  awaited  the  late  harvest 
of  the  North.  The  sky  above  was  of  that  lovely  blue 
which  is  quite  different  from  the  colour  of  skies  that 
are  always  blue — more  delicate,  with  no  more  hard 
suspicion  of  permanence  than  the  colour  of  a  wild 
flower — and  Barbara  suited  it  all  as  if  she  had  been 
painted  there  by  a  master  hand. 

"I  say — shall  we  sit  down  a  bit?"  said  Brooke 
suddenly. 

"All  right,  but  I'm  not  tired." 


SEA-WIND  177 


She  sat  down  on  a  bank  under  the  hedge  with  the 
cornfield  spreading  out  in  front  of  her  and  the  sky 
above.  He  stood  for  a  moment  longer  until  she  was 
settled.  While  memory  lasted  he  was  to  keep  the 
memory  of  her  as  she  sat  there — the  blue  and  white 
and  gold  with  splashes  of  scarlet  among  the  corn  and 
above  her  shining  eyes.  It  was  a  glory  of  pure  colour 
matching  in  its  exquisite  clearness  something  in  her 
frank  forehead  and  clear-cut,  tender  lips. 

"Barbara,"  he  said,  kneeling  down  beside  her,  "how 
am  I  going  to  leave  you?" 

She  shook  her  head,  her  eyes  unconsciously  seeking, 
fixed  on  his. 

He  took  her  hand. 

"It  seems  so  queer,  Barbara."  (He  could  not  speak 
her  name  too  often,  lingering  over  each  syllable.) 
"It  seems  so  queer  that  you  could  be  in  the  world  and  I 
not  know  it." 

Her  fingers  lay  in  his,  quite  still;  she  pretended  not 
to  see  they  were  there. 

"Yes."  Then  somehow  she  suddenly  thought  of 
Frank  Garret,  and  took  her  hand  away. 

He  continued  gravely,  broodingly:  "How  strange 
things  are :  me,  going  about  the  world — and  you  in 
that  narrow,  sheltered  street  all  the  time.  .  .  ." 

They  wondered  at  life  together — old  life  wearing  a 
mysterious  new  mask.  He  told  her  of  his  fruit  orchards 
in  spring,  which  he  hoped  to  go  back  to  after  the  war, 
and  she  could  almost  smell  the  blossom  through  the 
warm  sea-wind  that  came  over  the  sunlit  corn.  But 
their  talk,  though  so  engrossing,  really  meant  nothing 
to  either  in  itself  just  now;  it  was  like  the  overture 
that  is  only  leading  up  and  up  to  something  beyond — 


178  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

the  ears  of  their  souls  were  all  the  time  listening  for  a 
wonder  to  come.  And  thus  the  beautiful  afternoon 
hours  went  by,  until  it  began  to  grow  late,  when 
Barbara  drew  forth  the  old  fashioned  watch  on  a  long 
gold  chain  which  Mrs.  Simpson  had  lent  her  because 
her  own  was  broken.  Brooke  touched  the  watch  too, 
bending  over  to  see  it  more  clearly  because  they  could 
not  believe  the  hands  had  reached  a  quarter  to  five. 
And  as  he  touched  it,  he  felt  the  warmness  which  the 
gold  had  gathered  from  lying  under  her  blouse,  and 
suddenly  pressed  the  watch  to  his  lips.  It  was  still 
held  by  the  slender  chain,  and  she  gazed  at  him  over 
it  with  lips  parted  and  eyes  dark  and  wide — like  a 
pictured  Madonna  too  rapt  to  be  afraid.  There  was, 
indeed,  something  very  solemn  and  lovely  in  her  look 
at  that  moment.  Then  the  chain  broke. 

"Oh!  Mother's  chain!"  she  cried,  startled.  "Please 
give  it  me." 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  he  looked  at  her  putting 
the  watch  back  into  her  blouse.  They  were  both 
trembling. 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  said. 

"No."  He  forced  the  word  out  rather  than  spoke 
it  "Sit  where  you  are." 

"But  I  must " 

He  flung  his  arm  round  her  and  held  her. 

"Barbara !  Can't  you  see  I'm  mad  for  love  of  you  ? 
I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you.  I've  been  keeping  it  in. 
But  I  can't— I  can't— 

She  let  him  press  his  head  against  her  soft  shoulder 
and  hide  his  face  there.  A  long  minute  passed.  Then 
he  heard  her  murmur :  "Poor  boy !  Poor  boy !" 

She  said  it  in  the  voice  whieh  she  had  only  learned 


SEA-WIND  179 


when  she  felt  his  weight  upon  her — just  as  a  mother 
learns  a  new  voice  when  her  first  baby  comes — the 
crooning  notes  that  had  always  come  when  she  wanted 
to  be  kind  were  there,  but  grown  deeper  and  far  more 
sweet. 

"I  do  love  you  so,  Barbara.  I  couldn't  leave  you 
without  telling  you." 

"Of  course  you  couldn't." 

He  sat  up  and  looked  at  her. 

"Why  not?" 

She  smiled  deep  into  his  burning  eyes. 

"I  shouldn't  have  let  you." 

"Oh,  my  dear!  My  dear!"  And  they  clung  to- 
gether again  while  the  sea  boomed  and  the  birds  sang 
and  the  salt  wind  came  across  the  corn.  Then  she 
said — 

"I  must  go  now.  Elsie  and  Mrs.  Clarke  will  have 
had  tea  long  since.  They  will  be  wondering  what  has 
happened  ?" 

"What  does  that  matter?  This  is  our  last  after- 
noon together.  We  may  never " 

He  stopped  short,  but  her  heart  filled  in  the  gap. 
They  might  never  be  together  in  the  sunshine  any 
more. 

"Oh,  Julian,  I  feel  as  if  it  would  kill  me  to  let  you 
go,"  she  cried.  "How  am  I  to  live  through  the  time 
until  you  come  home  again  ?" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  again,  very  gently  this  time. 
"Poor  little  girl,"  he  said.  "That's  all  my  love  is 
bringing  you.  I  ought  to  have  left  you  alone." 

"No !  No !"  she  said.  "I  couldn't  have  borne  that. 

I "  She  paused  and  looked  him  in  the  face  with 

her  colour  deepening  painfully.  "You  must  never 


i8o THE  SILENT  LEGION 

blame  yourself.    Always,  always  remember  that!    I— 
I  came  to  Scarcliffe  because — because  I  wanted  you !" 

"How  sweet — to  tell  me,"  he  whispered,  holding 
her  close.  And  it  was  a  moment  when  young  passion 
was  converted  by  a  mixture  of  the  soul's  love  into 
something  wonderfully  beautiful.  All  the  rose  and 
gold  and  pearl  of  that  most  magic  draught  shone 
through  the  crystal  bowl  they  held  up  between  them. 

"You'll  never  let  this  spoil  your  life — not  if  anything 
happens  to  me?"  he  said. 

"No,  Julian,  I  won't.  I  won't!"  she  said,  half 
sobbing.  It  was  the  cry  of  brave  weakness  taking  on 
strength  through  love,  but  he  knew  that  she  spoke  true 
as  she  looked  at  him,  her  sweet  mouth  a  little  twisted 
by  keeping  back  her  tears. 

So  she,  too,  gained  a  picture  of  her  lover  which  was 
to  stay  with  her  always — his  hair  against  the  mellow 
afternoon,  touched  golden  where  it  was  ruffled  by 
leaning  on  her  shoulder;  his  dark  eyes  blazing  with 
passionate  adoration  as  he  looked  down  at  her.  She 
came  into  his  arms  again  of  her  own  accord  and  closed 
her  eyes,  leaning  her  cheek  against  his  coat.  The 
rough  feel  of  it  and  the  smoke  odour  were  to  remain 
with  her  while  she  remembered  anything. 

"My  own  girl:  I  can't  leave  you,"  he  murmured, 
his  love-cry  no  less  monotonous  than  that  of  all  other 
living  creatures.  "Barbara,  I'm  going  to  buy  our 
wedding-ring  before  I  go.  I  must  put  it  on  and  see 
how  it  looks." 

"Dearest,  I'll  wear  it  on  a  ribbon  round  my  neck 
and  kiss  it  every  night." 

Thus  they  came  upon  that  divine  futility  of  lovers 
which  cannot  bear  repeating,  but  is  a  part  of  love  like 


SEA-WIND  181 


all  the  rest  As  he  measured  her  finger  and  put  the 
knotted  string  in  his  pocket,  she  felt  that  a  new  thing 
had  been  done  in  the  world;  and  at  last  they  started 
to  walk  back  along  the  cliff  top  in  the  beginning  of  the 
sunset. 

"I  must  write  to  your  Father,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him,  suddenly  grave  and  pale.  This 
was  no  lovers'  fairy  tale  then:  something  hard  and 
real  had  come  into  it  already. 

"I  think  I  had  better  tell  Mother  myself  first.  She 
is  in  bad  health,  and  I  think  a  letter  like  that  would 
upset  her." 

"You  don't  mean  you  want  to  keep  it  a  secret?"  he 
said  sharply.  "I  hate  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Oh!"  she  paused.  "Well,  I  do  too.  I'll  tell  them 
the  minute  I  get  back." 

"Why  not  write?" 

She  hesitated,  looking  down. 

"They — they  are  rather  foolish  about  me.  And 
they  are  a  little  prejudiced,  in  a  way,  because  your 
brother  .  .  .  though  father  does  think  you  behaved 
so  splendidly  about  little  Kitchener  ...  I  think  it 
would  come  better  by  word  of  mouth." 

"I  don't  like  going  without  seeing  Mr.  Simpson," 
said  Brooke. 

"Well,  he  can't  get  over.  And  you  can't  get  leave 
to  go  to  Flodmouth.  Besides — "  she  hesitated  again 
and  told  the  truth — "we  have  only  three  more  days, 
Julian.  Don't  let  us  spoil  them  by  all  sorts  of  bothers. 
You  can  come  to  see  Father  the  very  first  time  you 
are  home  from  France." 

"You  mean  you  think  your  parents  will  make 
difficulties?" 


182 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

She  turned  round  and  suddenly  clung  to  him. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know !  I  don't  know !  We  can't  spoil 
our  last  bit  of  time  together." 

What  she  left  unspoken — the  tragic,  unanswerable 
"It  may  be  all  we  ever  have" —  influenced  him  against 
his 'better  judgment,  just  as  her  sudden,  spontaneous 
embrace  disturbed  his  senses :  he  ceased  to  see  clear. 

"Will  you  do  as  I  say,  Julian?"  she  urged.  "Will 
you?  Will  you?" 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  upturned  face. 

"I'll  do  anything  on  earth  you  want,  dearest.  But 
you'll  promise  me  to  tell  them  directly  I  am  gone?" 
he  added  quickly. 

"I  promise,"  said  Barbara. 

So  he  took  her  hand  and  they  began  to  walk  along 
the  cliff  top  towards  home.  The  evening  star  came  out 
through  the  sunset.  They  were  happy. 

As  they  halted  at  the  end  of  the  Parade,  they  looked 
up  into  a  clear  sky. 

"Another  fine  day  to-morrow.  If  we  could  only 
spend  one  whole  day  together,  Barbara !" 

"Anyway,  there'll  be  the  evenings.  Elsie  will  not 
be  well  enough  for  two  or  three  days  to  go  out  after 
supper." 

"They  may  try  to  keep  you  in,"  he  said. 

"No,  I'll  manage  it  somehow." 

"Don't  they  suspect  anything?" 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  Elsie  does;  she  is  as  sharp  as  a 
needle.  But  I  shall  not  say  anything.  I  want  to  tell 
Mother  first." 

"Good-night." 

"Good-night." 

They  said  it,  and  as  they  turned  back  to  say  it 


SEA-WIND  183 


again,  he  saw  the  door  of  a  little  tea-shop  open  and 
shut. 

"Look!  There's  a  tea-place  open!"  he  exclaimed 
with  joyful  haste,  like  one  seeing  a  reprieve.  "Your 
people  will  have  finished  tea.  Won't  you  come?" 

She  hesitated,  glancing  away  from  him. 

"I'm  awfully  late.  They'll  wonder."  Then  she 
looked  at  him.  "Why,  you'll  want  something  your- 
self, of  course."  And  she  began  to  walk  towards  the 
shop,  saying  defiantly:  "Mrs.  Clarke  should  have  let 
me  bring  friends  home  with  me.  But  she  took  us  at 
a  very  low  rate.  Anyway,  it's  her  fault." 

They  found  a  table  in  a  corner  of  the  half-empty 
place,  with  a  waitress  who  muttered  something  about 
supplying  "soldiers  only"  on  Sundays.  But  in  the  end 
they  were  allowed  to  take  their  little  meal  together, 
with  cake  like  sawdust  and  very  indifferent  tea.  They 
did  not  notice  this,  however,  because  they  were  really 
partaking  of  a  love-feast  whose  sacredness  made  the 
actual  food  no  matter.  It  was  the  last  meal  they  were 
to  share  before  the  parting,  and  beneath  their  merry 
words  and  their  looks  towards  each  other,  their  hearts 
performed  silent  acts  of  worship  of  which  they 
remained  unconscious.  They  only  knew  as  they  came 
out  into  the  star-light,  brushing  off  the  crumbs,  that 
they  had  just  done  something  very  beautiful  and 
solemn. 

For  the  old,  old  instincts  of  the  hearth  rise  up  again 
whenever  a  man  and  girl  who  love  each  other  truly 
take  their  first  meal  together  as  declared  lovers,  even 
though  it  be  in  a  fly-haunted  tea-shop. 


CHAPTER  XII 

PARTING 

THE  last  evening  on  which  Brooke  could  be  sure 
of  meeting  Barbara  had  come.  His  draft  was 
to  leave  forty-eight  hours  later  for  the  Front,  and  he 
would  probably  be  detained  in  camp  the  following 
night.  Barbara  stood  in  the  sitting-room  nervously 
fidgeting  with  some  wool  that  she  was  winding  for 
Mrs.  Clarke  over  the  backs  of  two  chairs.  The  blinds 
were  down  and  the  gas  was  already  lighted.  At  last 
she  said  carelessly — 

"Now  I  think  I'll  go  out  for  a  turn.  You'll  be  all 
right,  Elsie?" 

"Right  as  I've  been  every  night.  But  my  cold  is 
much  better.  I  could  quite  well  go  out  to-night." 

Barbara  looked  fixedly  at  her  wool,  but  her  fingers 
shook  so  that  she  let  go  the  ball.  It  was  curious  how 
this  drama  of  her  love  working  out  against  a  wide 
background  of  sea  and  sky  should  yet  be  controlled 
at  every  crisis  by  Elsie's  cold  in  the  head. 

"What  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Clarke?"  pursued  Elsie. 

The  grey  rabbit  dilated  her  pink  nostrils,  consid- 
ering, and  it  was  the  voice  of  fate  Barbara  waited  for, 
because  she  knew  herself  unable  to  either  tell  Elsie 
openly  to  stay  at  home  or  to  explain  how  matters 
stood.  She  endured  the  strange  moment  common  to 
most  lives  when  a  sensible  human  being  with  ordinary 

184 


PARTING 185 

strength  of  will  is  like  a  trembling  bird  fascinated  by  a 
snake ;  physically  able  to  escape  from  the  embarrassing 
circumstance,  yet,  like  the  bird,  incapable  of  doing  it. 

"I'm  sure  I  shall  be  all  right  if  I  put  a  scarf  on," 
said  Elsie  going  towards  the  door. 

Barbara  opened  her  lips,  closed  them  again  and 
tangled  the  wool:  then  she  spoke  with  her  face  bent 
over  it — 

"You  sneezed  at  supper." 

"Ah!  I'd  forgotten  the  sneeze,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke. 
"I  really  think,  Elsie,  I  should  stay  in  for  one  more 
night." 

"Very  well,"  said  Elsie,  glancing  sideways  at  her 
sister.  "I  suppose  I  had  better  do  as  Mrs.  Clarke 
thinks  best,  then?" 

Barbara  steadied  herself  against  the  back  of  the 
chair.  The  revulsion  of  feeling  was  perfectly  ridicu- 
lous, but  it  almost  caused  her  to  feel  faint. 

"That's  a  good  girl,  Elsie.  I'll  just  go  for  an  hour," 
she  said,  putting  the  wool  together. 

"Barbara!"  cried  Elsie  sharply.  "You  are  tangling 
that  wool  so  that  nobody  will  ever  be  able  to  wind  it." 

Mrs.  Clarke  looked  round  over  her  grey-shawled 
shoulder. 

"I  hope  you  have  not  given  your  sister  your  cold, 
Elsie,"  she  said.  "Miss  Simpson  looks  very  pale  to- 
night and  her  eyes  are  over  bright.  I  think  she  would 
be  best  indoors,  too."  She  paused.  "You  stay  quietly 
indoors  too,  Miss  Simpson." 

"No!"  Barbara  jerked  out  the  word  in  a  stress  of 
nervous  irritation  that  was  becoming  almost  uncon- 
trollable; but  at  the  door  she  forced  herself  to  turn 
and  smile. 


186 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Good-night,  Elsie.  It  is  hard  lines  on  you."  And 
there  was  something  in  that  wavering  smile  which 
vaguely  touched  Elsie,  though  she  only  called  out — 

"Crocodile!" 

"Hush!  Hush!  Nice  name  to  call  your  sister,"  said 
Mrs.  Clarke,  who  was  nothing  if  not  literal. 

"Barbara  doesn't  mind.  Barbara  knows  I  could 
say  something  she'd  dislike  a  lot  worse  than  that  if  I 
liked,"  said  Elsie. 

The  door  closed  and  Mrs.  Clarke  put  her  knitting 
down  to  look  across  at  Elsie,  for  curiosity  about  the 
meanest  trifles  had  power  to  galvanise  her  at  once  into 
a  resemblance  of  animation :  "Do  you  think  she's  gone 
to  meet  any  one  in  particular?" 

"Don't  know,  I'm  sure." 

"I  expect  it's  that  Brooke  you  spoke  about.  Some- 
body said  a  draft  was  going  off  to-morrow  night.  Do 
you  think  he  is  going  with  it  ?"  pursued  Mrs.  Clarke. 

"I  never  think — hurts  my  head,"  said  Elsie  smooth- 

iy. 

Mrs.  Clarke  stared  at  her — let  the  words  slowly  sink 
into  her  comprehension  and  reddened. 

"I'm  sure  I  had  no  wish  to  intrude.  But  surely  a 

friendly  interest  in  young  ladies  under  my  charge " 

She  sniffed  and  rose. 

"Well,  I  was  rude,"  said  Elsie.  "But  it  would 
make  any  one  rude  stopping  in  night  after  night,  when 
you  have  only  one  fortnight  in  the  whole  year, 
wouldn't  it,  Mrs.  Clarke?" 

And  her  face  looked  so  wistful  and  peaked  in  the 
full  light  of  the  lamp  that  Mrs.  Clarke's  slowly  gather- 
ing indignation  against  Barbara  came  to  a  head. 

"She  doesn't  want  you,  Elsie.     She  wants  to  be 


PARTING 187 

trapesing  about  alone  with  some  man  or  other.  I  call 
it  very  unkind  and  selfish." 

"Oh  no,  Mrs.  Clarke !  Barbara  is  not  selfish.  You 
don't  know  Barbara,"  said  Elsie  loyally.  But  she  was 
unable  to  conceal  the  truth  from  herself,  for  even  in 
the  mornings  when  they  went  out  together  the  elder 
sister  was  rather  silent  and  took  no  real  interest  in  any- 
thing. 

"If  this  is  being  in  love/'  she  reflected,  "I  think 
people  ought  to  take  something  for  it,  and  wear  a  band 
round  their  arm  like  they  do  for  vaccination,  so  that 
you  can  keep  off  them  until  it's  over.  But  how  per- 
fectly awful  if  Barbara  doesn't  get  over  it,  and  stops 
like  this  for  ever!" 

When  Barbara  got  safely  outside  she  stood  still  for 
a  moment  and  drew  in  a  breath  of  the  sea  air.  The 
night  was  misty  and  softly  dark,  as  if  a  veil  had  been 
thrown  over  the  world;  the  very  sound  of  the  little 
waves  seemed  muffled  as  they  broke  upon  the  shore. 

Brooke  slipped  up  to  her  quietly  out  of  the  darkness 
where  he  had  been  waiting  and  put  his  hand  through 
her  arm. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  he  said  speaking  low  as  if 
in  tune  with  the  night. 

"The  tide's  out.    Let  us  go  along  the  shore." 

They  said  very  little  as  they  walked  along  under  the 
shadow  of  the  cliffs,  for  the  weight  of  the  impending 
parting  lay  heavy  on  them.  When  they  reached  a 
gravelled  space  sheltered  by  a  jutting  angle  of  the  cliff 
they  sat  down,  and  for  quite  a  long  time  they  sat 
holding  each  other  quietly,  his  cheek  against  hers, 
which  remained  cold  and  pale  in  spite  of  their  nearness. 


188  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

The  hush!  hush!  of  the  little  waves  seemed  to  Bar- 
bara's ears  like  the  voice  of  things  lost  for  ever — never 
to  be  found  again.  She  had  always  thought  she  should 
be  so  brave  if  she  were  married  or  engaged,  and  her 
man  went  to  the  Front,  and  now  she  was  feeling  like 
this ;  the  only  thing  she  could  do  was  to  keep  quiet  and 
refrain  from  saddening  him  more. 

"Barbara!"  he  whispered  at  last.  "I  feel  as  if  I 
couldn't  go  and  leave  you." 

"You'll  soon  be  back  on  leave.  A  few  months  will 
soon  pass,"  said  Barbara,  in  a  flat,  dull  tone  she  scarcely 
recognised  as  her  own. 

"You  don't  love  me  as  I  love  you  or  a  few  months 
would  seem  for  ever,"  he  answered,  kissing  her.  "Oh, 
Barbara,  if  only  you  could  have  married  me  before 
I  went !  I  longed  to  ask  you,  but  I  feared  to  take  ad- 
vantage .  .  .  you  two  girls  here  alone.  You  might 
have  been  my  wife  by  now  if  we  had  only  chanced  it. 
It's  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  have  stopped  to  consider 
risks,  but  it's  because  I  love  you  so." 

"And  I  love  you.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  let  you 
go.  I'm  a  coward,  I  know;  but  I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't." 

She  fought  against  her  tears  but  they  would  come. 
Her  low  sobbing  mingled  with  the  sound  of  the  little 
waves  on  the  shore.  She  felt  herself  to  be  utterly 
miserable  as  she  lay  there  sobbing  with  his  arm  close 
about  her,  knowing  the  greatness  of  his  love;  but  she 
was  really  tasting  one  of  those  few  joys  in  life  which 
are  so  keen  that  they  are  scarcely  distinguishable  from 
pain.  .  .  . 

"You'll  stick  to  me,  Barbara?"  he  said.  "Whatever 
happens,  you'll  stick  to  me!" 

"You  know  I  will !    You  know  I  will !" 


PARTING 189 

So  they  clung  together  and  there  were  tears  in  his 
eyes  too.  After  a  while  he  sat  up  and  fumbled  in  his 
pocket. 

"Here's  the  wedding-ring,  Barbara,"  he  said.  "I 
want  you  to  take  care  of  it  until  I  come  back.  Then 
it'll  be  all  ready " 

"Oh,  Julian!" 

"Oh,  Barbara!" 

They  clung  together  again  .  .  .  they  were  unhappy 
and  yet  all  the  joy  in  the  world  was  theirs  .  .  .  they 
believed  in  perfect  happiness. 

He  parted  her  slim  fingers  in  the  dark  to  find  her 
wedding  finger. 

"Let  us  see  if  it  fits,"  he  said.  Then  he  pressed  it 
to  his  lips.  "My  little  wife.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  you  only 
were!"  .  .  . 

"I  couldn't  be  any  more  faithful  then  than  I  shall 
be  now,"  she  answered. 

"Darling !     My  own  Barbara !" 

For  a  long  time  they  sat  there,  holding  each  other 
close  and  murmuring  words  of  love.  At  last  they  rose 
and  began  to  walk  back  towards  the  town.  And  now 
both  began  to  say  how  quickly  the  months  would  pass, 
and  how  often  they  would  hear  from  each  other.  A 
stranger  walking  behind  would  almost  have  thought 
Brooke  pleased  to  go  back  to  France,  and  Barbara 
pleased  to  have  him  go. 

As  they  went  the  moon  rose,  and  it  was  shining 
mistily  above  the  town  when  they  stopped  for  their 
last  embrace  at  the  end  of  the  terrace.  Brooke  took 
her  left  hand  again  and  kissed  it  passionately. 

"My  wife!" 

Then  they  stood  murmuring  together  again  those 


igo  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

things  which  cannot  be  written.  At  last  she  dragged 
herself  away  from  his  arms  and  started  running  blindly 
towards  the  house.  He  caught  her  up  and  held  her 
again.  They  heard  a  clock  chime  the  hour  and  he  had 
to  leave  her. 

"Julian!" 

It  was  her  whole  being  that  called  after  him  as  he 
hurried  along,  but  he  could  not  hear  her — in  a  little 
while  she  slowly  went  up  the  steps  into  the  house. 

She  paused  outside  the  room  where  Mrs.  Clarke  and 
Elsie  sat  reading  and  said  through  the  half-open 
door — 

"Good-night!" 

There  was  the  rustle  of  Mrs.  Clarke  and  Elsie  mov- 
ing. 

"You're  not  going  to  bed  yet,  Barbara?  Aren't  you 
going  to  have  some  cocoa?" 

"No,  thank  you.     I'm  tired." 

She  remained  in  shadow,  remembering  suddenly  that 
she  still  wore  the  wedding-ring.  She  tried  to  remove 
it  and  it  would  not  come  off. 

"Barbara!"  called  Elsie. 

She  ran  upstairs  without  answering,  wrapping  her 
hand  in  her  handkerchief.  In  two  or  three  minutes 
Elsie  followed  to  find  her  bending  over  the  wash-basin 
with  her  hand  in  the  cold  water. 

"What  is  it?     Hurt  your  hand,  Barbara?" 

Barbara  muttered  something  which  might  be  Yes 
or  No. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Elsie. 

Barbara  covered  her  hand  with  the  sponge  and  said 
impatiently :  "Oh,  it's  nothing !  Don't  worry  me !" 


PARTING  191 


Elsie  went  away  and  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

"If  that's  how  you  take  it!" 

And  they  talked  no  more  until  Barbara  was  about  to 
put  out  the  light;  when  Elsie  said — 

"Finger  better,  old  girl?" 

Barbara's  nerves  were  in  that  overstrung  state  when 
the  least  touch  makes  them  quiver  responsive  with  a 
keenness  that  hurts,  so  she  felt  the  tears  rising  to  her 
eyes  and  turned  out  the  light  hastily  to  hide  them,  say- 
ing in  a  muffled  voice — 

"Yes,  thank  you.    Sorry  I  was  so  chippy!" 

There  was  a  pause,  then  Elsie's  voice  came  low  and 
excited  across  the  darkness. 

"I  say,  that  was  a  wedding-ring!  It's  no  use  pre- 
tending I  didn't  see.  What's  happened,  Barbara?" 

There  was  another  pause.    Then  Barbara  said — 

"I'm  engaged  to  Brooke.  This  ring  is  ready  for  us 
to  get  married  when  he  comes  back." 

"Engaged!  Oh!  what  will  Mother  and  Father  say? 
Why,  you'll  be  sister-in-law — sort  of — to  Miss  Pell- 
ing's  Lillie!" 

And  Barbara  felt  a  tremendous  relief  at  this  sudden 
loosening  of  an  almost  unbearable  tension  which  Elsie's 
remark  had  somehow  caused. 

"As  if  that  mattered !"  she  answered.  "People  don't 
bother  about  such  things  now.  The  war  has  done  that 
much  good  at  any  rate." 

"But  he's  a  widower,"  said  Elsie.  "And  he  lives  in 
Canada  when  he  is  not  a  soldier.  I  don't  know  how 
you  can!" 

Barbara  sat  up,  bright-eyed  in  the  darkness. 

"I  don't  care!    I  shouldn't  care  tuppence  if  he  had 


192  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

been  married  a  hundred  times  and  lived  at  the  North 
Pole.  So  there !" 

"Poor  old  Barbie!"  said  Elsie,  her  sharp,  girlish 
voice  in  queer  contrast  to  the  elderly  tolerance  of  her 
tone.  "I  suppose  you  can't  help  it.  Now  you'll  have 
to  turn  out  before  breakfast  to  get  that  ring  filed  off, 
unless  you  want  Mrs.  Clarke  to  see  it — and  the  shops 
won't  be  open  till  nine.  You  won't  get  back  until 
breakfast  is  all  cold  and  I  shall  have  to  tell  some  lie 
or  other  about  your  going  bathing." 

"You  needn't  do  that!  I  shall  bathe,  of  course,  if 
I  say  so,"  responded  Barbara,  suddenly  aware  that  her 
accustomed  elder-sisterly  role  was  slipping  away  from 
her  for  good. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  END  OF  SUMMER 

WHEN  the  girls  returned  to  Chestnut  Avenue  after 
their  holiday  the  summer  was  over — leaves  al- 
ready blowing  in  a  coolish  wind — and  the  autumn  not 
yet  set  in.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Simpson  unconsciously 
watched  the  flight  of  a  grimy  plane-leaf  across  the  win- 
dow; then  Mr.  Simpson  said — 

"We're  not  parents  in  a  play.  If  Barbara  will  have 
him,  we  must  make  the  best  of  it.  But  I  must  own 
that  I  am  bitterly  disappointed — bitterly  disappointed !" 

"So  am  I;  only  we  want  our  girl  to  be  happy,  and 
young  people  will  look  for  happiness  in  their  own  way. 
We  wouldn't  have  her  marry  any  man  unless  she  loves 
him,"  Mrs.  Simpson  said. 

"She  used  to  fancy  she  loved  Garret,  though," 
argued  Mr.  Simpson.  "What's  the  fancy  of  a  girl 
who  changes  like  that,  against  a  good  husband  and  a 
good  home?  We  can't  live  for  ever.  ...  I  do  wish 
you  would  show  more  common  sense,  Harriet." 

He  knocked  out  his  pipe  impatiently,  angry  with 
his  wife  because  he  was  anxious  and  troubled  for  her 
and  his  children,  after  the  manner  of  the  decent  hus- 
band all  the  world  over. 

"Well,  it's  done  now,"  answered  Mrs.  Simpson. 
"Nothing  we  can  say  will  move  Barbara."  She 

193 


194  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

paused,  then  added  in  a  low  tone :  "Don't  worry  so, 

Sam.  Brooke  may  never "  She  paused,  turning 

away  from  her  husband. 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  like  to  count  on  that!"  he  said 
hastily. 

"Of  course  not." 

There  was  a  pause,  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Simpson 
knowing  what  they  had  almost  hoped — then  he  said : 
"Well,  we  must  go  into  all  the  pros  and  cons  when 
Brooke  comes  back.  He  is  at  the  base.  He's  sure  to 
come  back  all  right." 

"Yes.  His  arm  is  not  perfectly  sound  yet.  Of 
course  they  won't  send  him  into  the  firing  line.  I  feel 
sure  he  will  come  back  safe." 

Thus  they  soothed  with  words  that  shame  which 
stirred  like  an  ache  in  the  bottom  of  their  minds. 

"I  am  sending  him  this  pair  of  socks,"  said  Mrs. 
Simpson  beginning  to  knit  again. 

"Good  idea."  Mr.  Simpson  touched  a  beautiful 
peach  on  a  dish  near.  "I  suppose  Frank  Garret  grows 
these." 

"Yes.  He  has  that  place  outside  Flodmouth  that 
belonged  to  his  cousin,  on  his  hands  still.  He  told  me 
he  was  just  keeping  the  gardens  from  going  to  ruin." 

"The  girls  are  using  the  tickets  he  sent  for  the  Red 
Cross  Matinee  to-morrow  after  all,"  said  Mrs.  Simp- 
son, beginning  again  after  a  pause.  "Elsie  was  keen 
to  go,  and  I  think  Barbara  feels  she  neglected  her  sis- 
ter at  Scarcliffe.  She  seems  anxious  to  do  anything 
she  can  to  make  up  for  it." 

"Poor  Barbara!  I  know  she  was  dreadfully  upset 
when  she  found  you  couldn't  get  a  charwoman  after 
.all  while  they  were  away,"  said  Mr.  Simpson. 


THE  END  OF  SUMMER  195 

"There's  no  doubt  the  work  did  knock  you  up.  You 
have  been  worse  again  since." 

"Then  I  shall  get  better  again,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson 
smiling.  "Poor  Sam,  to  have  such  an  old  crock  for  a 
wife!" 

"Well!  I'll  go  and  get  a  lettuce  for  supper.  I  saw 
there  was  one  just  ready  last  night:  a  beauty,"  said 
Mr.  Simpson. 

But  though  that  was  all  his  response,  Mrs.  Simpson 
knew  quite  well  what  it  meant:  and  when  he  brought 
his  fine  lettuce  in,  so  proud  of  its  firm  heart  and  large 
size,  she  knew  it  to  be  a  token  of  love.  For  Mr.  Simp- 
son had  loved  his  wife  as  Barbara  loved  Brooke,  though 
Barbara  would  have  deemed  this  so  impossible  in  a 
father  of  his  age  and  figure.  But  while  Mrs.  Simpson 
loved  her  husband  dearly,  her  passion  was  for  her 
children. 

"What  am  I  to  say  to  Barbara,  then?"  she  asked, 
looking  at  him  over  the  fine  lettuce  on  her  knee.  "That 
we  agree  to  the  engagement,  but  don't  want  it  to  be 
made  public  until  Brooke  comes  home  on  leave  ?" 

"Yes.  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  I  don't  like  it. 
Seems  a  bit  rough  on  Frank  Garret,  too.  He  seems  to 
be  hanging  about  again." 

"We  won't  consider  that,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson  flush- 
ing. "He  did  not  consider  Barbara  much  during  all 
those  years." 

"Two  wrongs  don't  make  a  right,  though,"  said 
Mr.  Simpson. 

And  there  you  had  it — there  you  had  a  million  Mr. 
Simpsons — a  power  to  move  the  world  were  they  but 
united  and  conscious  of  their  power.  And  yet  perhaps 
then  something  irreplaceable  would  be  lost.  .  .  . 


196  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"But  we  must  do  our  best  for  Barbara,"  urged  Mrs. 
Simpson.      "We  both  think   Brooke   an   undesirable 
match  for  her  and  if  anything  were  to  happen — 
She  paused.    "It  seems  no  use  advertising  the  engage- 
ment until  we  are  sure." 

Mr.  Simpson  frowned. 

"I  don't  like  it,"  he  repeated. 

"But,  Sam "  Mrs.  Simpson's  breath  came  fast 

because  her  heart  was  throbbing  unpleasantly,  but  she 
was  going  to  stab  her  husband  all  the  same  if  it  would 
bring  an  advantage  to  her  child.  "You  must  remem- 
ber that  your  business  is  gone.  It  was  no  fault  of 
yours,  but  you  can  do  nothing  for  your  daughters. 
You  must  put  your  personal  feelings  on  one  side  and 
let  me  judge  in  this  matter  what  is  for  the  best." 

Mr.  Simpson  waited  a  moment,  staring  at  his  boots, 
filled  with  a  dreary  sense  of  failure  such  as  he  had 
never  known  before,  even  in  his  worst  moments.  Then 
he  turned  round  to  his  wife. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "I  can't  do  anything  for 
them.  Do  as  you  like."  And  he  went  out. 

She  saw  how  she  had  hurt  him,  but  knew  too  much 
to  touch  the  wound  she  had  made. 

Barbara  felt  the  slight  unevenness  of  a  letter  tucked 
into  her  blouse  as  she  put  away  the  bread,  but  she 
awaited  a  time  when  she  could  be  undisturbed.  Her 
own  turbulent  thoughts  and  emotions  made  her  un- 
willing to  read  Brooke's  first  letter  from  France  under 
the  keen  eye  of  her  younger  sister.  She  had  an  uncon- 
scious intuition  that  if  Elsie  saw  her  doing  it,  that 
tiresome  young  person  would  know  more  about  her 
state  of  mind  than  she  did  herself. 


THE  END  OF  SUMMER  197 

At  last  she  was  free  to  seek  her  harbour  of  refuge, 
the  bathroom,  and  she  locked  the  door  in  a  frenzy  of 
irritation  quite  beyond  any  reason  for  it.  Her  hands 
shook  as  she  took  the  crisp,  thin  paper  from  the  envel- 
ope and  the  words  all  ran  together.  She  sat  down  on 
the  wooden  ledge  of  the  bath.  Gradually,  the  words 
ceased  to  dance  in  the  greenish  light  which  shone 
through  the  thick  glass  of  the  bathroom  window. 

They  settled  down  into  words  of  golden  fire,  though 
they  were  neither  more  nor  less  eloquent  than  thou- 
sands coming  across  to  England  by  the  same  post.  But 
they,  like  the  rest,  set  up  a  circuit  of  thoughts  and  emo- 
tions, and  had  no  more  actual  relation  to  a  wonder 
achieved  than  the  telegraph  pole ;  they  were  but  the  in- 
struments through  which  Barbara  was  able  to  feel  once 
more  for  a  moment  or  two  as  she  did  upon  the  sands  at 
Scarcliffe.  The  thrill  of  contact  on  first  reading  was 
so  real  that  it  seemed  like  his  lips  on  hers;  but  with 
the  second  time  it  faded,  though  reason  struggled 
against  feeling  and  made  her  tell  herself  this  was  not 
so;  while  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  the  letter  was  just 
a  very  dear  love-letter  which  had  once  been  alive,  and 
would  be  dear  always — but  never  alive  any  more. 

Nothing  would  have  made  Barbara  own  this  even  to 
herself;  and  indeed  the  paper  his  hands  had  touched 
and  the  plain  account  of  his  days,  with  a  phrase  that 
would  read  to  strangers  like  utter  folly  towards  the 
middle  and  again  at  the  end,  did  have  a  value  for  her 
beyond  all  reckoning. 

She  sat  dreaming  in  the  green  twilight  of  the  bath- 
room like  a  maid  of  legend  in  the  pellucid  depths  of 
the  ocean — as  far  from  conscience — as  removed  al- 
most from  the  real  issues  of  life.  Then  Elsie  rattled 


198  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

at  the  door,  and  all  the  complicated  machinery  of  hu- 
man existence  once  more  sounded  in  her  ears,  breaking 
the  spell.  She  rose,  and  called  out  sharply — 

"What  do  you  want  ?     You  can't  come  in." 

"I  say,  Barbara!  What  is  it?  There's  nothing 
wrong  is  there?"  asked  Elsie  in  a  low  voice  through 
the  crack  of  the  door.  "Brooke  is  not  ill  or  wounded 
again  ?" 

Barbara  flung  open  the  door  impatiently. 

"Hush!  Mother  will  hear.  Surely  my  being  in  the 
bathroom  is  no  sign  of  anything  wrong  with  Julian, 
silly!" 

"I  knew  you  came  here  to  read  his  letter,"  said 
Elsie,  shutting  the  door  behind  her.  The  girls  were 
very  near  together  in  the  narrow,  enclosed  space  with 
its  white  walls  and  greenish  light.  "Barbara,"  she 
continued  earnestly,  "do  you  really  want  him  or  don't 
you?  If  you  don't,  you  simply  shan't  stick  to  it  be- 
cause you've  promised.  I'll  write  to  him  and  tell  him 
the  truth  myself  first.  You  got  carried  away.  I'm 
sure  that  was  it.  And  now  Frank  is  hanging  round 
again  you  see  you  have  made  a  mistake.  I  detest 
Frank,  but  it  seems  as  if  you  must  have  a  young  man : 
so  I'd  rather  you  had  one  we  know  something  about." 

"I  don't  want  Frank  to  send  things,"  said  Barbara. 
,"It  seems  like  encouraging  other  men  while  Julian  is 
away  at  the  Front,  and  I  think  girls  aren't  fit  to  live 
who  do  that  sort  of  thing." 

"So  do  I.  That's  why  I  think  you  ought  to  be  en- 
gaged openly  either  to  Brooke  or  to  Frank  Garret.  I 
hate  a  lot  of  secrets  when  there's  no  need  for  them. 
It's  like  sitting  in  a  stuffy  room  with  all  the  windows 


THE  END  OF  SUMMER  199 

shut,  when  you've  only  to  get  up  and  open  them.     I 
don't  know  how  you  can." 

But  neither  could  Barbara  tell  what  undercurrents 
of  feeling  had  made  her  promise  against  her  will  that: 
she  would  wait  until  Brooke's  next  leave  before  an- 
nouncing her  engagement.  It  was  really  the  subcon- 
scious knowledge  that  she  was  prepared  to  sacrifice 
her  family  for  her  lover  which  made  her  ready  to  give 
them  what  she  could  now,  in  a  spirit  of  remorseful 
tenderness.  She  had  always  loved  them  so,  and  yet 
now  they  scarcely  mattered  vitally  any  longer.  She 
felt  urged  all  the  time  to  make  it  up  to  them  while  she 
could. 

"Look  here,  Elsie,"  she  said,  "don't  you  bother 
yourself  any  more.  I — I  wouldn't  change  him  for  a 
duke  with  a  million  a  year." 

"Um!  Well,  it's  your  affair,  of  course,"  replied 
Elsie.  "Only  never  say  afterwards  that  you  had  no- 
body to  take  an  interest  and  so  were  forced  to  follow 
the  dictates  of  your  own  blind  heart,  like  a  heroine 
in  a  novel."  She  bent  forward,  staring  at  Barbara 
with  fierce,  yellow  eyes  under  her  great  mop  of  dark 
hair.  "You've  me!"  she  added.  "Never  you  forget 
that!  I'm  always  ready  to  talk  things  over  and  tell 
you  what  I  think." 

Barbara  was  obliged  to  laugh  at  that  though  she 
felt  rather  worried  and  overstrung. 

"No  fear!"  she  said.  "Here,  get  these  taps  polished 
if  you  want  something  to  do.  What  do  you  know 
about  love  ?" 

"Well,  I  can  understand  Romeo  and  Juliet,  so  I 
should  be  able  to  understand,  Barbara  Simpson  and 


200 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

Private  Brooke,"  said  Elsie,  going  out  of  the  room 
with  her  head  in  the  air. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Barbara's  engagement  was 
not  spoken  of  in  Chestnut  Avenue,  where  the  occa- 
sional visits  of  Mr.  Frank  Garret  once  more  began  to 
cause  comment  as  they  had  done  years  ago  before  the 
neighbours  had  ceased  to  expect  any  further  develop- 
ments. Very  little  was  said,  after  all,  because  every 
one  was  too  busy,  or  too  sad,  or  too  anxious,  to  care 
greatly  about  Barbara  Simpson's  love  affairs,  but  there 
remained  that  tendency  to  gossip  which  must  exist  in 
every  community  small  enough  to  be  in  any  sense  a 
human  family. 

It  was  rather  comforting  than  otherwise  to  Miss 
Felling,  for  instance,  to  know  that  her  neighbours 
were  discussing  her  diminished  income  and  the  fact 
that  she  was  learning  with  difficulty  to  clean  and  bake 
in  the  intervals  of  hospital  work.  She  did  not  know 
this,  of  course,  and  imagined  that  she  was  annoyed 
by  their  curiosity;  still  she  was  deeply  aware  in  some 
region  beyond  her  clear-cut  thoughts  that  anything 
was  better  than  nobody  caring.  But  her  appearance 
after  the  operation  of  blacking  the  kitchen  grate  for 
the  first  time  was  such  that  Mr.  Binny,  chancing  to  be 
at  a  back  window  and  seeing  her  emerge  with  the  ashes, 
was  impelled  to  murmur  solemnly :  "Thank  God  I 
didn't  do  it!  I  might  have  run  away." 

All  the  same  when  Barbara  said  to  Miss  Felling, 
"I'm  afraid  this  housework  is  an  awful  bother  to  you," 
she  was  met  writh  such  a  violent  "I  tell  you  I'm  en- 
joying it!"  that  there  was  no  more  to  be  said. 

This,  however,  was  no  heroic  pose  on  the  part  of  a 


THE  END  OF  SUMMER'  201 

spinster  who  could  not  be  transformed  into  a  perfect 
domestic  worker  by  the  great  influence  of  patriotism 
in  about  a  week  like  a  lady  in  a  book,  but  the  defence 
of  one  who  hated  pity  even  more  than  she  hated  house- 
work— which  \vas  saying  a  good  deal. 

It  was  an  example  of  the  way  in  which  everything 
in  life  was  being  turned  upside  down  that  Miss  Felling 
should  glance  forth  from  her  window  during  the  after- 
noon with  a  mark  of  black  dust  over  one  eye.  A  tall, 
smart  lady  was  coming  up  the  path,  wearing  a  fashion- 
able costume,  and  with  the  most  exquisite  complexion 
that  could  be  bought  for  money — so  exquisite  indeed, 
that  one  artistic  flaw  would  have  left  the  admiring  on- 
looker uncertain  whether  it  was  a  gift  of  Providence 
or  a  purchase  from  a  different  quarter.  However 
Miss  Felling  was  no  respecter  of  persons,  and  went  to 
the  door  prepared  to  greet  anybody  from  a  shipping 
magnate's  wife  to  a  young  lad^  from  the  shoemaker's 
round  the  corner. 

"Good-afternoon,"  she  said  briskly. 

The  lady  said  nothing,  but  stood  and  stared  at  Miss 
Felling.  Miss  Felling  stood  and  stared  at  her.  There 
was  something  familiar.  .  .  . 

No,  she  hadn't  seen  the  lady  with  the  elaborately 
waved  hair  and  lovely  complexion  before. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  she  concluded. 

"Nothing,  Miss  Felling.  You've  done  enough,  you 
have!" 

"Lillie!"  cried  Miss  Felling.  Then  she  noted  again 
the  over-smart  appearance  of  her  old  servant.  "Oh, 
I'm  so  sorry,  I'm  so  sorry.  And  yet  you  have  been 
hardly  treated.  I  don't  know  that  I  can  blame — 


202 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

She  stood  there  with  affection  for  Lillie,  an  austere 
virtue,  her  queer  conviction  that  she  herself  might — 
given  a  different  nose — have  been  one  of  the  "high- 
kicking,  champagne-popping  sort,"  all  combining  to 
bewilder  her  judgment.  Then  she  became  suddenly 
aware  of  the  curious  gaze  of  Mrs.  Wilson  opposite. 

"Come  in,"  she  said.     "We  must  talk  things  over." 

The  door  closed  on  the  two  women.  Lillie,  who  had 
never  heard  the  Flodmouth  noises  and  was  not  con- 
scious of  hearing  them  now,  suddenly  felt  the  dull, 
familiar  cadence  and  the  high  shriek  of  an  engine  whis- 
tle. It  accentuated  that  silence  of  the  closed  house 
which  became  terrible  to  her  as  she  stood  on  the  lino- 
leum trying  to  force  a  question  over  her  dry  lips  that 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  refused  to  obey  her.  She 
licked  their  artificial  freshness  with  her  tongue  and 
said — 

"Then— Baby  isn't  here?  He's  not "  She 

could  not  say  any  more. 

"No!  No!"  cried  Miss  Felling.  "He's  all  right. 
He  is  being  taken  care  of  by  Mrs.  Hobby,  the  porter's 
wife.  He  is  quite  strong  and  well." 

Lillie  leaned  back  for  a  moment  against  the  wall 
while  the  little  hall  with  the  pictures  she  had  so  often 
dusted  swam  about  her. 

"You  did  give  me  a  turn,"  she  said  faintly.  "I 
thought  maybe  he  had  got  smothered  in  the  basket, 
or  you  hadn't  found  him  in  time,  or  something." 

"How  could  you  do  such  a  trick  ?"  said  Miss  Felling. 
"But  come  in  and  sit  down:  you  don't  look  fit  to 
stand." 

So  Lillie  followed  into  the  kitchen  and  sat  down  in 
her  smart  clothes  on  the  high-backed  window  chair 


THE  END  OF  SUMMER  203 

with  the  cretonne  cushions  which  she  had  covered : 
while  Miss  Felling  took  the  other,  with  roughened 
hands  resting  on  a  soiled  apron  and  shabby  shoes 
sticking  out  under  an  old  skirt.  They  were  very  grave 
and  not  thinking  at  all  of  their  reversed  positions  as 
they  sat  in  the  same  way  as  they  had  often  done  in 
the  past  when  the  mistress  came  in,  in  her  walking 
things,  to  have  a  few  words  with  her  excellent  servant. 

"Miss  Felling,"  said  Lillie,  "you  may  well  wonder 
at  me  doing  such  a  thing.  But  when  you're  driven  into 
a  tight  corner,  same  as  I  was,  you  do  things  you  would 
never  have  dreamt  of.  And  I  knew  I  could  trust  you. 
I  hadn't  been  with  you  all  them  years  without  finding 
that  out." 

"Um!  Well,  that's  something,"  said  Miss  Felling. 
"But  why  didn't  you  just  write  to  me  for  help  like  a 
sensible  woman  ?" 

Lillie  hesitated. 

"I'll  be  straight  with  you,  Miss  Felling.  I  knew 
you  would  want  to  help  me  in  your  way,  and  I  wanted 
you  to  help  me  in  my  way.  That's  where  it  came  in. 
I  couldn't  bear  to  be  set  up  in  a  little  house  to  look  after 
my  baby  in  a  sort  of  disgrace  and  people  being  sorry 
for  me.  I  daresay  I  was  a  wicked  mother,  but  that's 
how  I  felt" 

Miss  Felling  shook  her  head.  There  had  always 
been  a  real  bond  of  sympathy  between  her  and  Lillie 
which  this  appeal  strengthened,  but  she  considered  it 
her  duty  to  say  rather  sternly — 

"Your  duty  to  your  child  ought  to  have  come  before 
every  other  consideration." 

"Well "  Lillie  left  it  at  that.  "So  I  got  the  offer 

of  a  good  place  with  a  lady  that  kept  a  shop  for  im- 


204 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

proving  people's  hairs  and  complexions."  ("A  real 
clever  hand  she  is,  you  can  see  what  she's  done  for 
me,"  added  Lillie,  in  parenthesis.)  "I  was  sort  of 
general  servant  and  did  all  for  her  in  the  living  part  of 
the  house,  and  she  said  she  was  comfortabler  than  what 
she'd  ever  been  in  her  life.  I  used  to  put  on  uniform 
sometimes,  and  help  to  show  people  into  the  shop  and 
that,  when  they  were  short-handed.  That  was  how  I 
met " 

Lillie  seemed  to  have  a  difficulty  in  proceeding. 

"Surely  you  didn't  make  a  fool  of  yourself  over 
another  man?  I  should  have  thought  you  had  had 
enough,"  said  Miss  Felling. 

"If  you  mean  Bob  Brooke  I  don't  regret  it,  and  I 
never  shall!"  flashed  out  Lillie.  "He  didn't  behave 
right,  but  I'm  glad  I  came  across  him,  and  I  always 
shall  be  glad.  Even  when  that  wife  turned  up  and 
started  scrapping  with  me  about  the  separation  allow- 
ance I  didn't  wish  I'd  never  seen  him."  She  pushed 
back  her  beautifully  waved  hair.  "But  that's  all  over 
and  done  with.  I  didn't  come  here  to  tell  you  that.  I 

came "  She  paused.  "Miss  Felling,  I'm  going 

to  be  married  again!" 

"What!"  cried  Miss  Felling.  "After  all  you've 
just " 

Lillie  nodded. 

"This  is  a  different  thing  altogether.  He's  an  old 
bachelor  getting  into  years,  and  he  has  suddenly  found 
out  he  wants  a  good  cook  and  housekeeper  that  can't 
give  notice — though  he  does  go  on  so  about  my  beau- 
tiful hair.  And  I  want  a  good  home  for  myself  and 
the  child.  Fair  exchange  is  no  robbery." 

"Is  he  a  nice  man  in  himself,  though,  Lillie?"  said 


THE  END  OF  SUMMER  205 

Miss  Felling.  "It  would  be  dreadful  for  both  you 
and  the  boy  if  you  got  some  one  who  was  not  kind." 

"Oh  yes,  he's  a  decent  old  sort  enough,"  said  Lillie. 
"Only  reason  he  didn't  marry  before  was  because  he 
felt  frightened  of  not  being  so  comfortable  with  a 
wife  and  family  as  he  was  without,  and  always  kept 
wondering  whether  he  wasn't  giving  himself  away  too 
cheap.  Such  like  often  pick  up  the  crooked  stick  at 
last." 

"He  is  lucky  to  get  a  woman  such  as  you,"  said  Miss 
Felling.  "Is  he  well  off?" 

"Yes.  That  reminds  me ''  She  took  out  a  note- 
case from  her  handsome  bag.  "Miss  Felling,"  she 
said  earnestly,  "no  money  won't  pay  for  what  you've 
done,  but  I  should  like  to  give  you  the  out-of-pocket 
expenses  you've  been  put  to  with  Baby.  He — Mr. 
Waggley — knows  all  about  it,  and  he  gave  me  plenty 
to  pay  up." 

"You  owe  me  nothing,  Lillie,"  said  Miss  Felling. 
"You  don't  know  that  your — your  first  husband  met 
his  brother  Julian  when  they  both  lay  wounded  side 
by  side  at  Rouen.  It  was  one  of  those  strange  chances 
that  are  always  happening  in  this  war." 

"Oh,  Miss  Felling!  Did  you  hear  what  Bob  said? 
Did  he  tell  his  brother  about  me?"  asked  Lillie.  "It 
seems  like  a  message  from  the  dead."  And  she  began 
to  weep. 

"He  spoke  of  you  and  gave  my  address.  That  was 
how  Mr.  Julian  Brooke  found  out  where  Baby  was, 
and  he  insisted  on  paying  for  the  child's  maintenance," 
said  Miss  Felling. 

"Julian  ?"  said  Lillie.  "I  think  I've  heard  Bob  men- 
tion him.  He  was  the  youngest.  But  they  hadn't 


206  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

seen  each  other  for  a  long  time  and  my  poor  old  man 
never  had  much  to  say  about  his  relations.  You  can't 
wonder." 

"You  can't  indeed,"  said  Miss  Felling  grimly. 

"But  I  should  like  to  see  this  Julian.  I  want  to 
hear  what  they  said,  and  how  Bob  looked — poor  fel- 
ler!" said  Lillie. 

"You  can't  do  that,  I  am  afraid.  Julian  Brooke  is 
in  France,"  said  Miss  Felling;  then  she  hesitated,  but 
at  last  her  good  heart  had  its  way:  "I'll  pop  across 
and  ask  Miss  Barbara  to  come  and  speak  to  you.  She 
saw  something  of  your  man's  brother  and  may  be 
able  to  tell  you  more  than  I  can." 

"You  are  good  to  me,"  wept  Lillie,  quite  overcome. 
"I've  liked  you  better  than  anybody  in  the  world  but 
him,  for  all  you  were  so  aggravating  about  bringing 
the  dirt  out  of  the  garden  into  the  front  hall  and  being 
late  for  your  meals." 

Miss  Felling  ran  across  to  the  Simpsons,  where  she 
briefly  explained  her  errand,  and  in  five  minutes  she 
and  Barbara  entered  the  kitchen  together. 

"Oh,  Miss  Barbara!"  cried  Lillie.  "Miss  Felling 
says  you  saw  my  man's  brother;  Julian,  they  called 
him." 

Barbara  flushed  deeply.  She  found  it  so  odd  to  hear 
that  dear  name,  which  no  one  had  used  in  her  hearing 
but  herself,  come  so  casually  from  the  lips  of  Miss 
Felling's  Lillie.  Of  course  the  situation  was  quite  nat- 
ural and  expected,  but  still  Barbara  did  find  it  strange 
to  be  confronted  with  the  fact  that  she  was,  in  a 
way,  a  sister-in-law  of  Lillie.  But  this  only  lasted  a 
moment,  and  immediately  afterwards — despite  the 
girl's  tinted  complexion  and  superficial  smartness — her 


THE  END  OF  SUMMER  207 

heart  went  out  towards  one  who  had  lost  Julian's 
brother. 

"I'm  afraid  I  know  so  little,"  she  said.  "But  when 
your  man  was  dying  he  made  Julian  promise  to  seek 
you  out  and  stand  by  you.  His  last  thought  seems  to 
have  been  for  you." 

"You  didn't  get  to  know  what  he  said  exactly — not 
any  words  you  can  remember?  I  should  like  to  have 
known  the  words,"  said  Lillie  eagerly.  "If  you  could 
only  have  remembered  one  thing  Bob  said:  just  one 
little  thing." 

"I  can't,"  said  Barbara.  "I'm  so  sorry."  Then  she 
stood  looking  at  the  pattern  of  the  hearthrug  before 
the  kitchen  fire:  diamonds — squares — the  red  oval  in 
the  middle ;  and  yet  she  was  only  trying  to  fix  her  mind 
on  that  lest  it  should  betray  her  into  something  vague, 
not  definitely  perceived,  that  she  would  be  sorry  for 
afterwards. 

"Well,"  said  Lillie  as  she  rose,  sighing;  "I  shan't 
see  Julian  now,  even  if  he  does  come  home,  and  it 
isn't  a  thing  you  can  get  to  know  by  writing — not  to 
any  sense.  The  gentleman  I'm  going  to  marry  is  easy 
enough  in  most  ways,  but  he  won't  let  me  hold  no 
communications  with  any  of  the  Brooke  family.  He 
said  so  flat,  and  he  means  it,  and  I  suppose  you  can't 
blame  him.  After  all,  a  bigamy  is  a  bigamy,  even  if 
it  comes  out  all  right  in  the  end.  Only  I  do  wish  I 
could  have  known  what  poor  Bob  said  that  night.  It 
would  have  been  a  sort  of  comfort  to  me.  There'll 
never  be  anybody  like  him." 

Still  Barbara  counted;  diamonds — squares — the  red 
oval :  then  she  ceased  to  count. 

"Lillie,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  trust  you  and  Miss 


2o8 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

Felling  with  a  secret.  I — I'm  engaged  to  Julian 
Brooke.  And  when  he  comes  back  I'll  find  out  as 
exactly  as  I  can  what  Bob  said  and  write  it  to  you.  I 
know — oh !  I  know  how  you  feel !"  And  to  her  sur- 
prise, Barbara  felt  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  Miss  Barbara,"  said  Lillie 
quietly  and  gravely.  "I  hope  your  young  gentleman 
will  come  home  safe  from  France,  and  that  you'll  live 
happy  with  him.  There's  nothing  on  earth  like  getting 
the  one  you're  really  gone  on,  and  if  it  doesn't  last 
you've  had  it:  haven't  you?  Things  has  turned  out 
all  right,  but  if  they'd  been  ever  so  bad  I'd  rather  have 
done  as  I  have  done,  than  stopped  comfortable  with 
Miss  Felling.  And  now,  I  must  be  going  to  Mrs. 
Hobby's  to  see  about  taking  Baby  away." 

"You'll  return  here  for  the  night  at  any  rate?"  said 
Miss  Felling. 

"No,  thank  you.  I  wasn't  sure  how  you'd  look  at 
things,  and  so  I  took  a  room  at  a  temperance  hotel. 
But  I  shall  come  to  bid  you  good-bye,"  said  Lillie.  So 
Barbara  and  Miss  Felling  accompanied  '  er  to  the  door, 
and  she  bade  them  farewell,  but  seemed  unable  to  go, 
hovering  uncertainly  on  the  mat. 

"I  haven't  said  .  .  ."  she  began,  then  stopped  short. 
"You  must  think  .  .  ."  she  started  again,  and  again 
broke  off.  At  last  she  managed  to  blurt  out :  "I  don't 
want  you  to  think  I  didn't  want  my  baby.  You  don't 
know  .  .  .  them  nights!"  And  she  went  away  down 
the  Avenue  with  Barbara  and  Miss  Felling  staring 
after  her  fashionable,  imposing  figure  until  it  turned 
the  corner. 

"Is  this  true  about  your  engagement,  Barbara?" 
said  Miss  Felling  turning  to  Barbara  then.  "But  of 


THE  END  OF  SUMMER  209 

course  it  is!  You  wouldn't  be  likely  to  make  a  joke 
of  such  a  thing  at  such  a  time.  I  suppose  your  father 
and  mother  don't  approve  and  want  it  kept  dark?" 

"Yes!  I  have  promised  to  say  nothing  until  Julian 
comes  home  on  leave.  I  ought  not  even  to  have  told 
you." 

"Oh,  I'm  safe!"  said  Miss  Felling. 

"Of  course  I  know  that,"  said  Barbara.  "Well,  I 
must  hurry  off  now.  I  promised  to  take  tea  with  Mrs. 
Du  Caine  and  the  children." 

"And  I  must  get  'cleaned.'  I  wonder  what  Lillie 
thought  of  my  blackleading,"  said  Miss  Felling  with  a 
laugh. 

But  she  thought  rather  sadly  that  Barbara  came 
very  seldom  to  see  her  now,  and  yet  she  realised  that 
youth  must  cling  to  youth ;  it  was  natural  enough  that 
these  two  girls  with  a  husband  and  a  sweetheart  out  in 
France  should  be  drawn  closer  together  while  she  was 
left  outside.  So  she  washed  herself  with  a  quite  fierce 
thoroughness  and  went  forth  to  take  night  duty  at  the 
Hospital,  thanking  God  for  work,  like  many  another 
lonely  woman  in  Flodmouth  that  evening. 

In  going  down  the  Avenue  she  encountered  Mr. 
Binny,  who  was  coming  home  rather  grey-faced  and 
drooping,  his  long,  lean  figure  gaunt  against  the  twi- 
light, and  she  stopped  in  neighbourly  fashion  to  tell 
him  about  Lillie. 

"Dear!  Dear!  You'll  be  very  glad,"  he  said.  ''You 
behaved  with  quite  unusual  kindness  to  your  maid.  It 
all  fits  in,  no  doubt,  with  your  democratic  ideas." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that,"  retorted 
Miss  Felling.  "I  liked  Lillie.  But  if  you  mean  to  say 
I  join  hands  with  the  working  man  and  prance  round 


210 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

a  statue  of  Anarchy  so  as  to  be  'in  it,'  in  case  any- 
thing happens — well,  I  don't!  I  leave  that  to  the 
titled  ladies  in  the  newspapers." 

And  she  whisked  away  down  the  street,  leaving  Mr. 
Binny  to  sigh  as  he  entered  his  own  gate.  Her  sharp- 
ness pleasantly  titillated  his  rather  sluggish  mind,  and 
he  felt  lonely  and  tired  and  vaguely  desired  cheerful 
female  company  beside  his  hearth.  So  long  as  his 
sisters  lived  he  had  been  all  right  but  for  the  stirrings 
of  emotion  from  which  no  man  is  exempt,  and  there 
had  been  no  alternative — he  was  obliged  to  remain  un- 
married in  order  to  keep  first  a  mother  and  then  his 
sisters.  Only  now  when  he  could  afford  to  take  a  wife, 
the  ardour  which  would  overcome  all  obstacles  had 
petered  out:  he  simply  could  not  get  over  Miss  Pell- 
ing's  nose. 

By  all  the  laws  of  justice  and  sentiment  this  should 
not  have  been  so,  but  it  was :  Mr.  Binny  sighed  again 
and  went  into  the  house  while  Miss  Felling  walked 
cheerfully  along  the  Avenue,  not  troubling  about  her 
nose  at  all,  for  the  mental  enamel  which  she  had  in- 
stinctively developed  to  protect  the  quivering  sensi- 
tiveness of  a  child  who  was  different  from  other  chil- 
dren, had  become  permanent,  and  she  could  never 
again  feel  the  agony  she  knew  in  her  schooldays  when 
the  boys  shouted  "Nosey !"  after  her  in  the  street. 

Next  morning  Barbara  chanced  to  see  little  Kitch- 
ener being  taken  away  in  a  cab  to  the  railway  station 
by  his  mother,  and  she  suddenly  realised  that  the  one 
outside  link  between  Brooke  and  Flodmouth  had  been 
severed.  Nothing  could  connect  him  with  the  place 
or  even  bring  him  back  there,  but  his  love  for  her. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SACRIFICE 

THE  Daylight  Saving  Order  had  ceased  for  the 
time  being,  and  it  seemed  then,  with  the  sudden 
shortness  of  the  days  so  brought,  as  if  winter  came  all 
at  once  to  the  Avenue.  Not  the  pleasant  settling  down 
to  the  indoor  interests  and  amusements,  which  had 
once  given  to  Flodmouth  at  this  time  of  year  the  aspect 
of  a  jolly  family  coming  back  to  work  and  play  after 
the  summer  holidays;  but  the  beginning  of  the  fourth 
winter  of  the  war. 

Mr.  Simpson,  returning  from  his  office  some  two 
hours  later  than  he  used  to  do,  with  a  heavy  cold  on 
him  and  damp  fog  irritating  his  bronchial  tubes, 
thought  heavily  of  what  that  change  signified.  As  he 
passed  a  public-house  he  heard  two  dim  figures  talking 
together — 

"Time  this  war  was  finished  one  way  or  another: 
I'm  dead  sick  of  it.  It  ought  to  get  stopped  at  any 
cost.  What  are  we  going  to  get  out  of  it?" 

And  for  the  moment  his  own  tired  heart  echoed 
what  he  heard.  ...  It  was  true  enough.  In  a  few 
years  he  would  be  out  of  the  whole  affair,  anyway, 
and  he  was  losing  everything.  What  was  the  good  of 
it  all?  He  sneezed  violently,  permeated  with  a  sense 
of  the  utter  uselessness  of  his  fortitude  and  suffering. 

211 


212 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

Then  he  turned  into  the  Avenue  and  bumped  up  against 
Mr.  Wilson :  he  would  have  given  almost  anything 
at  that. moment  to  avoid  speaking  to  Mr.  Wilson,  but 
was  forced  to  brace  himself  up  to  it. 

"Good  evening.  I've  just  heard  .  .  .  I'm  truly 
sorry,  Wilson." 

"Thank  you.  You've  lost  your  lad,  too.  You  know 
what  it  is.  .  .  ."  All  Mr.  Wilson's  pompousness  had 
faded  out  of  him  and  he  was  just  a  desolate,  middle- 
aged  man  going  home  through  the  raw,  chill  darkness 
of  a  Flodmouth  autumn  evening. 

After  a  moment  or  two  Mr.  Simpson  spoke  again — 

"How's  Mrs.  Wilson?" 

"Oh,  she's  splendid  after  the  first  shock.  A  Mother 
feels  it  as  no  one  else  can,  of  course." 

And  this  echo  of  Mrs.  Wilson's  capital  "M"  sound- 
ing through  her  husband's  dull  voice  was  somehow  no 
longer  ludicrous  but  deeply  pathetic. 

"Good-night,   Simpson." 

They  parted  with  relief,  and  yet  they  were  the  bet- 
ter for  having  spoken  to  each  other;  though  they  had, 
in  a  sense,  said  nothing  at  all.  It  never  occurred  to 
either  of  them,  of  course,  to  speak  of  that  place  to 
which  their  only  sons  had  gone.  Mr.  Wilson,  indeed, 
rather  thought  that  he  had  no  definite  religious  opin- 
ions and  no  definite  belief  in  a  future  life;  but  as  he 
plodded  into  his  house  where  his  wife  sat  trying  not 
to  cry  for  his  sake,  he  did  most  deeply  believe  that  his 
boy  was  alive  with  God,  and  in  the  glorious  company 
of  youths  who  have  died  for  England. 

For  nearly  every  life  in  the  Avenue  now,  consciously 
or  unconsciously,  possessed  a  little  window  opened 
upon  heaven.  Those  having  it  might  be  profoundly 


SACRIFICE  213 


unaware  of  its  existence,  but  they  could  not  help  their 
lives  becoming  illuminated  by  the  light  of  the  world 
to  come.  It  was  this  their  boys  had  done.  As  they 
went,  they  opened  that  window. 

So  Mr.  Simpson,  though  with  a  bad  cold  and  fretted 
by  unaccustomed  routine  work,  felt  absolutely  certain 
that  he  had  not  lost  sight  of  Jim  altogether.  And  as 
he  walked  on  he  began  to  feel  a  little  less  miserable 
without  knowing  why.  But  there  is  no  doubt  that 
Wilson's  soul  had  looked  out  of  that  window  and  bid- 
den Simpson's  soul  to  do  the  same.  For  a  moment 
they  had  stood — two  middle-aged,  tired  men  on  their 
way  from  a  tedious  day's  business — and  had  looked 
into  heaven  as  surely  as  any  prophet  in  his  vision. 

Supper  was  ready  almost  as  soon  as  Mr.  Simpson 
entered,  and  the  family  sat  round  the  table  talking  of 
the  night  before,  when  there  had  been  a  zeppelin  alarm 
in  the  city.  They  did  not  mention  young  Wilson's 
death  because  each  was  afraid  of  saddening  the  other, 
but  they  were  all  most  acutely  conscious  of  the  short- 
ness of  life,  and  its  uncertainty,  and  the  nearness  of 
the  world  to  come.  In  Barbara's  case — as  in  the  case 
of  many  ardent  young  women  since  the  beginning  of 
history — this  feeling  began  to  dominate  unduly  the 
plans  and  actions  of  her  present  existence.  The  hum- 
drum daily  round,  after  her  year's  hard  nursing  in  a 
hospital  away  from  home,  had  forced  all  those  feel- 
ings of  high  patriotism  and  high-strung  endeavour  into 
another  groove,  and  a  less  obvious  one,  where  they  had 
no  particular  outlet  and  were  likely  to  become  a  dan- 
ger to  herself.  The  atmosphere  about  her  was  so  vi- 
brating with  thoughts  of  sacrifice  that  she  began  to  see 


214 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

sacrifice  as  an  end  in  itself,  and  no  longer  as  a  means 
only.  She  began  to  find  the  sort  of  perverse  joy  in 
giving  up  which  has  been  a  power  in  the  world  ever 
since  men  began  to  think  deeply;  and  she  shared  in 
a  measure  the  state  of  mind  which  belongs  to  the  holy 
man  on  a  pillar  who  forces  nails  into  his  body  and 
feels  he  is  coming  near  to  the  eternal  holiness  be- 
cause the  nails  hurt  so. 

With  all  this,  she  was  quite  a  normal,  heailthy 
girl  so  far;  but  she  had  deep  feelings  and  a  nature 
which  responded  ardently  to  suggestion.  As  often 
happens  at  times  of  crisis  in  life  many  small  hap- 
penings combined  to  accentuate  one  trend  of  thought; 
or  perhaps  thought,  in  these  circumstances,  exercises 
a  sort  of  unconscious  selection,  picking  out  and 
dwelling  upon  what  will  sustain  a  point  of  view.  At 
any  rate,  to  Barbara's  over-sensitive  perceptions  at 
this  period  the  Avenue  was  no  ordinary  street  inhab- 
ited by  people  with  a  thousand  varying  impulses,  but 
a  place  of  sacrifice.  One  incident  among  many  which 
served  to  deepen  this  impression,  took  place  on  a  wet 
morning  when  she  called  with  a  magazine  at  that  house 
next  door  to  Miss  Felling's,  where  Mr.  Montgomery 
had  lodged  before  he  went  away  from  Flodmouth  with 
his  finished  book  of  reminiscences.  As  no  one  an- 
swered her  knock  she  entered  to  lay  the  magazine  on 
the  hall  table,  and  found  Miss  Brown  fainting  near 
the  hat-stand.  Then  it  transpired  that  the  poor  lady 
had  become  a  fruitarian — mostly  on  cheap  apples — 
in  order  to  provide  her  bed-ridden  mother  with  strong 
beef  tea.  Barbara  remedied  this  state  of  things  with 
Miss  Felling's  help  so  far  as  Miss  Brown's  urgent 


SACRIFICE  215 

pleadings  for  secrecy  and  her  pride  would  allow,  but 
the  impression  remained. 

Her  love  for  Brooke  was  mingled  with  these  emo- 
tions, giving  them  a  thrilling  keenness  which  hurt  and 
yet  produced  a  sensation  of  rapture.  The  smart  of 
shrewd  pricks  running  deep  into  her  heart,  in  some 
way  intensified  her  passion  for  her  lover.  Gradually 
he  began  to  appear  to  her  against  a  gold-dusted  haze, 
less  like  a  real  man  than  a  girl's  day-dream;  a  knight 
such  as  a  girl  sees  when  she  is  very  young  at  heart 
and  looks  half-wistfully  down  the  road  of  life  to  see 
who  is  coming. 

It  was  indeed  this  innocent  freshness,  this  clear 
youth  of  hers  which  made  the  deepening  lines  round 
her  mouth  seem  so  oddly  appealing,  that  had  drawn 
both  Frank  Garret  and  Brooke.  They  sensed  without 
knowing  it  the  exquisite  pleasure  that  could  come  from 
that  admixture  of  freshness  and  passionate  feeling; 
and  in  Brooke's  case  some  unconscious  inkling  of  its 
dangers  to  a  lover  gave  her  a  last  and  most  powerful 
attraction.  He  burned  with  such  a  white  heat  of  high 
emotion  during  these  days  that  the  bundle  of  her  let- 
ters which  he  carried  about  with  him  among  the  mud 
and  noise  and  sordid  details  of  war  seemed  a  talisman 
which  must  keep  him  safe  for  their  love.  They  could 
no  more  really  imagine  it  frustrated — brought  to  this 
for  nothing — than  they  could  imagine  the  earth  dis- 
solved. Their  letters  to  each  other  told  nothing  of 
what  they  felt,  and  yet  told  everything;  because  each 
possessed  the  key  by  which  to  read  the  cipher. 

So  when  Brooke  wrote :  "Don't  worry  about  me — 
I'm  in  the  pink,"  Barbara  read :  "I  wouldn't  bring  a 


216 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

shadow  of  trouble  on  you  for  all  the  world — your  love 
keeps  me  safe  for  you." 

And  when  she  replied:  "It  is  chilly  and  miserable 
even  here;  real  Flodmouth  weather.  Do  be  sure  to 
change  your  socks  when  they  get  wet,"  Brooke  read 
into  that :  "All  places  are  unhappy  ones  without  you. 
Take  care  of  yourself  for  the  sake  of  your  beloved." 

Occasionally,  at  the  end  of  a  letter,  both  got  a  little 
nearer  in  words  to  what  they  meant,  and  Brooke  read 
such  a  one  in  a  half -ruined  cow-stable  in  France  by 
the  light  of  a  guttering  candle,  which  almost  made  the 
frosty,  dirty  place  into  a  bridal  chamber.  He  felt  so 
near  to  her  afterwards  as  he  lay  in  the  dark  watching 
a  streak  of  moonlight  cross  the  face  of  the  snoring 
comrade  beyond  him,  that  he  and  his  love  did  indeed 
seem  to  have  been  joined  in  that  midnight  hour  by 
bonds  that  nothing  on  earth  or  in  heaven  could  break 
asunder. 

But  a  dog-tired  soldier  cannot  long  keep  vigil,  even 
with  the  phantom  bride  of  his  imagination,  and  he  was 
soon  asleep.  The  streak  of  moonlight  moved  across 
from  the  other  man's  face  to  his  own,  showing  most 
plainly  the  scars  and  lines  that  war  and  a  hard  expe- 
rience of  life  had  made  upon  it.  Even  in  sleep  it  was 
a  vigilant  face,  with  closed  lips  and  an  alert  strength 
ready  to  assert  itself  in  the  first  second  of  awakening : 
but  about  the  utterly  fatigued  attitude  of  his  body 
as  he  slept  there  was  that  slight  suggestion  of  forlorn- 
ness  which  had  first  caught  Barbara's  heart. 

Barbara  also  lay  asleep  in  the  greyish  brick  house 
which,  despite  all  dangers  and  changes,  seemed  by  com- 
parison so  sheltered — so  beautifully  safe — like  a  bird's 


SACRIFICE  217 


nest  in  a  wood  beyond  the  range  of  fire  though  within 
hearing  of  the  guns.  She  held  tight  in  the  hand  that 
was  pressed  against  her  face,  the  broken  wedding-ring 
which  had  been  filed  from  her  finger  the  morning  after 
she  and  Brooke  parted.  It  was  the  only  way  she 
could  enjoy  her  treasure  because  all  romantic  methods 
of  wearing  it  round  her  neck  or  against  her  heart  were 
open  to  detection  by  the  keen-eyed  Elsie,  and  not  for 
worlds  would  Barbara  have  exposed  the  secret  rapture 
of  her  thoughts  to  such  a  touch.  They  were  wonder- 
ful— sacred — to  be  hidden  from  every  one,  for  all 
time,  but  her  lover.  It  would  be  a  glory  to  show  them 
to  him,  equally  as  it  would  be  a  shame  to  let  any  one 
see  them.  She  possessed  to  the  full  that  fierce  mod- 
esty of  the  soul  which  is  the  joy  of  every  lover  able 
to  detect  it — which  adds  the  last  high  rapture  to  pos- 
session. 

And  during  that  hour,  while  they  both  slept,  a  thing 
happened  which  they  told  each  other  in  letters  received 
by  each  on  the  same  day.  Both  dreamed  they  met 
under  a  great  elm-tree  whose  yellowing  leaves  were 
falling  all  round  them,  but  after  a  first  embrace  the 
•"whole  scene  dropped  into  nothingness,  as  if  a  connec- 
tion were  suddenly  shut  off.  And  they  awoke  with  a 
sense  of  loss  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  occasion — 
their  very  life  seemed  to  depend  on  knowing  what 
followed  that  embrace  under  the  elm-tree  and  yet 
something,  somewhere,  would  not  let  them  know. 

But  even  when  Barbara  learned  that  Brooke  had 
endured  the  same  experience  at  the  same  time,  common 
sense  said  it  was  a  likely  enough  thing  to  happen. 
Autumn  had  come  with  the  change  of  foliage  both  in 
England  and  France,  and  they  always  fell  asleep  think- 


218  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

ing  of  each  other.  War  and  the  extraordinary  near- 
ness of  the  spirit-world  made  people  read  into  all  sorts 
of  things  a  meaning  they  would  never  have  seen  in 
ordinary  times.  So  they  both  just  hugged  the  dream 
to  their  souls  as  a  sign  of  nearness  and  then  forgot  all 
about  it. 

At  the  moment  of  waking,  however,  Barbara  still 
trembled  with  that  strange  sense  of  loss — of  every- 
thing she  so  ardently  desired  in  life  fading  suddenly 
into  a  blank  nothingness.  She  clutched  the  broken 
ring  tight  in  her  hand  until  it  hurt  her  flesh  as  if  to 
make  sure  of  that  at  least.  Then  came  Elsie's  voice, 
startled — 

"They're  moving  about  downstairs!" 

"What  is  it?  Another  alarm?  I  never  heard  the 
buzzer.  Oh,  there's  Mrs.  Bellerby's  voice  at  the  door," 
said  Barbara,  springing  out  of  bed.  "She's  all  alone 
in  the  house  with  Blanche  and  Dorothy  being  away : 
I  expect  she  is  nervous." 

"Silly  fool!  Why  didn't  she  go  to  Brighton  with 
them  if  she  feels  like  that,"  said  Elsie,  fastening  wrong 
buttons  in  her  haste,  and  irritably  rebuttoning.  "I 
hate  people  like  her.  I  wish  they'd  all  go  away.  And 
now  you've  got  my  stockings." 

"I  haven't.  Here  they  are,"  said  Barbara,  throwing 
them  across  the  room. 

"That  shows  you  did  have  them,"  said  Elsie,  eyes 
blazing  under  her  wild  hair.  "I  do  wish  to  good- 
ness  " 

"Come,  old  girl;  no  need  to  get  ratty  because 
there  are  zepps  about." 

Then  Mr.  Simpson's  voice  up  the  stairs — 


SACRIFICE  219 


"Is  that  you  moving,  girls  ?  You'd  better  come  down. 
I  have  to  go  out  now." 

Barbara  ran  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  fastening  her 
dress  as  she  went. 

"All  right,  Father.  Will  you  have  anything  before 
you  start?" 

"No,  no.    Time  I  was  off." 

The  door  shut.  Barbara  heard  Mrs.  Simpson  speak- 
ing to  Mrs.  Bellerby  in  the  passage1 — 

"We'll  sit  in  the  kitchen.  The  fire  is  still  alight 
there." 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  troubling  you."  .   .   . 

But  to  Barbara  all  this  seemed  as  yet  far  less  real 
than  the  moment  under  the  elm-tree.  She  went  into 
the  kitchen  where  the  shadows  of  the  two  women 
looked  unreal  and  grotesque  on  the  wall  as  the  candle 
wavered  in  the  draught:  then  came  a  sharp  whistling 
sound  and  a  heavy  thud.  All  the  windows  shook. 

"Where's  Elsie?"  cried  Mrs.  Simpson,  running  out 
into  the  passage. 

"Here!  I'm  all  right,"  said  Elsie  from  the  dark- 
ness. 

"Why  don't  you  come  in  here?  Don't  be  afraid, 
dear.  We  are  only  taking  our  share  of  danger  with 
all  the  rest,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson,  very  pale,  with  her 
weak  heart  beating  unpleasantly. 

"If  we  are  to  be  bombed,  we  shall  be,"  said  Mrs. 
Bellerby,  who  was  quite  calm;  to  the  surprise  of  the 
Simpsons.  (But  that  is  another  of  the  surprises  in 
this  war-time :  you  never  know  who  will  be  unafraid. ) 

"Come  on,  Elsie.  I'm  going  to  make  some  tea," 
said  Barbara. 

"Yes;  do  come  in  here,  dear,  out  of  that  cold  pas- 


220  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

sage,"  added  Mrs.  Bellerby.  "You  are  no  safer  there, 
you  know,  and  it  only  worries  your  mother." 

Suddenly  Elsie  was  in  the  midst  of  them,  her  face 
twitching  as  it  used  to  do  when  she  first  began  to 
be  ill. 

"All  right !"  she  said  violently.  "Look  at  me,  then ! 
Look  at  me.  And  let  Mrs.  Bellerby  go  away  and  say 
I'm  frightened  to  death  in  an  air-raid  when  I'm  less 
frightened  than  any  of  you.  I  wish  I  could  tear  the 
outside  of  me  off  and  show  you.  I'm — I'm  just  blaz- 
ing inside  with  not  caring,  only  that  rotten  face  of 
mine  would  begin  to  twitch.  That's  why  I  stopped 
outside  in  the  dark  by  myself.  I  hate  you  to  see  it." 

There  was  another  thud,  further  away.  They  turned 
their  faces  towards  the  sound. 

"It's  going " 

"Yes.     I  wonder  what  it  has  caught." 

They  paused.  Barbara  took  the  kettle  off  the  fire, 
her  soft  girlish  face  set  in  a  stern  mask  on  which  the 
gleam  of  firelight  played  strangely. 

"They  do  it  to  frighten  us.  They  don't  care  so  much 
what  they  hit." 

"No.  It's  just  bullying  on  a  gigantic  scale,"  said 
Mrs.  Simpson. 

"We  shall  be  obliged  to  do  the  same  back,"  said 
Mrs.  Bellerby. 

Elsie  turned  upon  them,  face  twitching  still,  eyes 
on  fire. 

"Yes:  and  can't  you  see  that's  the  worst  thing 
they've  done  to  us.  They're  forcing  us  to  be  like 
themselves.  The  devil  must  be  helping  them.  Only 
the  devil  could " 

"Hush,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson,  handing  a  cup 


SACRIFICE  221' 


of  tea.  "Sugar?  You'd  better  have  some  to-night." 
"I  don't  want  anything.  And  I  can  see  you  all  think 
I'm  upset  because  I'm  frightened,  but  I'm  not.  I  wish 
I  could  be  like  Charlotte  Corday,  and  kill  the  man 
who  sent  them  out,  and  die  for  it  next  minute.  I'd  die 
gladly.  I'd  glory  in  dying  so." 

"We've  got  to  live  and  bear  things  quietly.  That's 
harder  still,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson.  "Here,  sit  down  and 
drink  your  tea,  Elsie."  And  something  in  her  voice 
made  Elsie  sit  by  the  table  and  gulp  down  the  hot  tea. 

After  a  while  they  began  to  talk  of  ordinary  things, 
and  Mrs.  Bellerby  became  once  more  just  a  garrulous 
woman,  snatching  refinedly  at  the  more  difficult  h's 
as  she  described  the  glories  of  her  daughter's  sojourn 
at  Brighton. 

"Dear  Blanche's  mother-in-law,  Mrs.  Elliott,  you 
know,  is  so  devoted.  And  as  Hugh  is  in  France,  she 
thought  a  week  or  two  at  a  gay  hotel  would  cheer  up 
poor  Blanche,  so  took  her  to  the  Metropole  with  no 
expense  spared,  and  wired  to  Dorothy  to  join  them. 
It  just  shows  what  bringing  girls  up  simply  will  do.  I 
can  assure  you,  Mrs.  Simpson,"  she  lowered  her  tone 
though  Barbara  and  Elsie  were  in  the  scullery,  "that 
my  dear  Blanche  believed  the  story  of  the  doctor  and 
the  apple-tree  right  up  to  the  time  she  was  married. 
It  undoubtedly  gave  a  freshness " 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson. 

"Dear  Hugh  worships  Blanche;  simply  worships 
her,"  continued  Mrs.  Bellerby,  "and  now  Dorothy — 
but  perhaps  I  should  not  mention  this,  Mrs.  Simpson. 
I  used  to  have  an  impression  that  Mr.  Frank  Garret 
and  Barbara ?"  She  paused  inquiringly. 


222 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"How  ridiculous !"  said  Mrs.  Simpson  gaily,  but  her 
heart  sank  within  her  all  the  same  at  what  might  be 
coming,  for  she  and  Mr.  Simpson  had  hoped  still  that 
in  the  end  Barbara  and  Frank  would  marry.  A  vague 
feeling  concerning  Brooke  also  lingered  in  the  back 
of  their  minds.  They  did  not  even  put  it  into  thought. 
Such  vague  floating  phrases  as  came  to  the  surface : 
"You  never  know,"  "Accidents  always  happening  in 
war-time,"  "He  has  been  wounded  before"  .  .  .  they 
pushed  quickly  under  at  once  and  declined  to  be  aware 
of.  But  they  were  conscious  that  they  would  not 
grieve  too  much  if  Brooke  never  came  back,  and  were 
uneasily  ashamed  of  the  feeling.  It  was  therefore  on 
the  top  of  all  this,  most  uncomfortably,  that  Mrs. 
Bellerby  laid  her  next  item  of  information. 

"Frank  Garret  is  staying  at  the  same  hotel.  He 
and  the  girls  seem  to  be  going  about  everywhere 
together,  and  he  is  charmed  with  Mrs.  Elliott.  He 
thinks  her  perfectly  delightful,  though  Blanche  says 
she  is  rather  silent  with  him.  Only  she  is  so  glad  to 
make  things  pleasant  for  any  old  friend  of  Blanche's. 
She  always  is  giving  things  to  Blanche  and  trying  in 
every  way  to  please  her,  just  as  Hugh  would  like  to 
do  himself.  Isn't  it  wonderful  ?" 

Mrs.  Simpson  thought  a  moment.  Should  she  have 
done  the  same  for  her  boy  had  Jim  left  a  wife  behind 
him?  She  didn't  know  .  .  .  she  didn't  know.  .  .  . 
At  any  rate  she  could  and  did  appreciate  the  rare  qual- 
ity of  this  other  boy's  mother. 

"It  is  wonderful,"  she  said.  "Blanche  has  indeed 
been  a  fortunate  girl." 

"And  now  about  Dorothy — for  as  there  really  was 
never  anything,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  she  and 


SACRIFICE  223 


Frank  are  almost  engaged.  He  has  met  some  of 
Blanche's  new  connections  down  there  and  they  are 
all  most  pleasant  together,  though  of  course  they  don't 
mix  with  everybody  in  the  hotel."  She  lowered  her 
voice  again,  though  on  a  different  note.  "It  almost 
seems  providential  that  Frank  never  paid  Dorothy  any 
particular  attention  until  he  got  all  this  money.  And 
when  you  think  of  all  the  girls  in  Flodmouth  he  has 
run  after,  and  never  gone  any  further !  I  feel  at  times 
as  if  my  lonely  widowhood  were  being  made  up  to 
me." 

Mrs.  Simpson  murmured  something,  remembering 
with  vividness  the  late  Bellerby,  who  was  a  violent- 
tempered  man,  not  too  sober,  and  whose  passing  and 
leaving  his  income  more  or  less  intact  behind  him  at 
an  early  age,  had  been  the  greatest  good  fortune  of 
Mrs.  Bellerby 's  life — greater  even  than  the  great 
Elliott  alliance. 

Then  Barbara  stood  in  the  doorway  leading  to  the 
scullery. 

"Did  I  hear  you  say  Dorothy  and  Frank  Garret 
were  engaged?" 

"Not  officially,"  said  Mrs.  Bellerby,  with  a  giggle 
in  which  triumph  and  refinement  struggled  against 
each  other.  "But  I  rather  fancy  dear  Dorothy  may 
have  some  news  to  tell  me  soon." 

"How  perfectly  delightful!"  said  Barbara  with 
enthusiasm.  But  she  did  not  feel  as  she  spoke;  on 
the  contrary  it  seemed  for  the  moment  a  sort  of  insult 
that  the  man  who  had  had  her  youth  should  be  going 
to  marry  Dorothy  Bellerby.  She  would  not  have 
married  him  herself  now  to  save  her  family  from 
destruction,  for  the  calibre  of  her  love  made  that  sort 


224  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

of  sacrifice  impossible  to  her.  In  fact  her  whole  emo- 
tional life  was  so  wrapped  up  in  her  lover  that  she 
could  not  have  allowed  another  man  to  touch  her  in 
the  way  of  love,  and  yet  she  was  angry  that  Frank 
Garret  had  ceased  to  want  her  so  soon.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Simpson  swallowed  a  sigh  and  said  cheer- 
fully— 

"Dorothy  will  make  a  pretty  bride." 

"Yes.  It  seems  like  Tennyson,  doesn't  it!  'Oh! 
happy  bridesmaids  do  make  happy  brides!'  It  goes 
something  like  that,  doesn't  it?  And  so  true." 

"Well,    I    only    hope "    began    Mrs.    Simpson. 

Then  she  broke  off;  and  they  sat,  heads  raised,  eyes 
fixed,  listening. 

"That's  the  'All  clear'  buzzer,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes!" 

"Thank  goodness!" 

Mrs.  Bellerby  rose  and  put  on  her  shawl. 

"Then  I'll  be  going.  I  need  not  inflict  myself  on 
you  any  longer.  I'm  sure  you'll  want  to  get  off  to 
bed." 

They  went  with  her  down  the  passage  and  stood 
in  the  faint  light  of  dawn  that  lit  the  Avenue  through 
a  choking  dampness  that  passed  like  a  real  presence 
from  the  great  River  Flod  to  the  mainland. 

"You'll  be  done  up  after  this,  Mrs.  Simpson." 

"Oh  no.  So  glad  you  came.  Do  be  sure  and  come^ 
any  time  you  are  at  all  uneasy,  Mrs.  Bellerby." 

They  spoke  aimlessly,  wearily,  glancing  at  the 
houses  opposite. 

"Good  thing  for  Miss  Felling  she's  away." 

"Yes.  She  went  almost  immediately  after  Lillie 
took  the  child  to  London." 


SACRIFICE  225 


They  paused,  wanting  to  go  to  bed,  and  yet  unable 
to  say  the  last  word. 

"I  have  often  wondered  what  happened  to  the 
soldier  who  came  to  see  about  that  child." 

"He's  out  in  France." 

"Well,  I  don't  suppose  we  shall  ever  see  him  again. 
Nothing  to  bring  him  to  Flodmouth.  But  he  behaved 
very  well  about  the  child." 

At  last  Mrs.  Bellerby  departed,  and  Mrs.  Simpson 
and  the  girls  banked  up  the  fire  against  Mr.  Simpson's 
return. 

"We'd  better  go  to  bed.  No  use  sitting  up,  is 
there?" 

"No.  Leave  the  kettle  on  the  hob.  Your  Father 
will  only  be  worried  if  he  finds  us  here." 

They  went  upstairs  and  the  two  girls  closed  the  door 
of  their  big  attic  bedroom :  dawn  was  strengthening 
outside  as  they  drew  up  the  blinds,  letting  in  the  cool, 
damp  air. 

"I  wish  we'd  all  stayed  in  bed,"  said  Barbara. 

"Um!"  Elsie  sat  on  her  bed  edge,  frowning  and 
thinking  deeply.  She  looked  grey-white  and  exhausted, 
but  her  eyes  burnt  very  bright.  "Barbara,  I  wonder 
if  we  can  none  of  us  help  it — not  the  Germans  or  any 
of  us.  I  wonder  if  it's  just  some  terrible  law  of 
Nature  that  drives  men  to  kill  each  other  when  the 
world  gets  too  settled  and  too  full.  If  you  read  history 
it  seems  to  happen  so — over  and  over  again " 

"How  can  you  think  such  things,  Elsie?"  cried 
Barbara,  turning  sharp  round  from  the  looking-glass. 

"I  don't  think  them.  They  think  themselves.  I 
hate  thinking  them,"  said  Elsie,  half  crying  with  pain 
and  fatigue. 


226 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Poor  old  girl !"  said  Barbara,  on  that  crooning  note 
of  hers.  "Here,  get  your  things  off  and  pop  into  bed. 
It's  because  you're  worn  out." 

Elsie,  saying  no  more,  undressed  quickly  and  lay 
down.  Her  sister  was  soon  asleep  on  the  other  bed, 
breathing  quietly,  while  she  remained  awake  with  all 
sorts  of  half-formulated  thoughts  seething  in  her  mind. 
However  she  tried  to  keep  them  back,  they  would 
crowd  up  through  the  surface,  hurting  her,  mocking 
at  all  she  held  sacred.  At  first  she  prayed  in  bed :  "O 
God,  help  me  not  to  think  things  like  this!  Help  me 
not  to  think  things  like  this!"  But  that  made  no  dif- 
ference at  all  and  she  slipped  out  of  bed  to  kneel 
shivering  on  the  floor :  a  poor  little  figure  in  the  dawn, 
confronted  by  the  most  terrible  problem  this  age  has 
had  to  solve.  And  she  prayed  harder  than  she  ever  had 
done  in  her  life — until  her  head  began  to  swim  and  she 
had  to  get  up  from  her  knees.  Still  it  was  no  use.  It 
was  like  praying  into  a  wall  of  cotton  wool.  So  she 
went  back  to  bed  again  and  lay  awake  staring  into  the 
grey  twilight :  hoping  for  nothing ;  expecting  nothing. 

And  after  quite  a  long  while  she  began — as  Mrs. 
Simpson  had  once  done — to  experience  a  very  faint 
sense  of  light  and  calm  spreading  over  the  turmoil  of 
her  soul.  It  deepened.  She  was  conscious  of  the 
response  while  scarcely  aware  that  it  had  come. 

Soon  she  fell  asleep,  having  passed  through  one  of 
the  greatest  experiences  of  the  human  soul.  Only 
when  she  woke  in  the  morning  she  remembered  noth- 
ing of  it.  The  knowledge  was  stored  deep  down  in 
her  girl's  memory  until  she  should  call  upon  it. 

Morning  rose  grey  and  chill  at  this  time  of  the  year, 


SACRIFICE  227 


and  the  Simpsons  were  breakfasting  to  the  accustomed 
sounds  of  Flodmouth  .  .  .  the  Zum!  Zum!  Swish! 
Ting !  Ting !  all  merged  together,  and  the  high  O-oh ! 
of  the  engine  over  the  wall.  Now  came  a  nearer 
sound,  a  motif  making  itself  clear  above  the  rest :  the 
heavy  rumble  of  a  removal  van  going  past  the  window 
and  the  raucous  coughing  of  the  man  who  accom- 
panied it. 

Mr.  Simpson  glanced  out  through  the  window,  con- 
tinuing to  eat  hurriedly — 

"Who's  that  removing?" 

"Deane.  He's  going  to  a  terrace  house  somewhere : 
they  can't  live  here  with  food  so  dear." 

As  the  Simpsons  thought  of  the  little  clerk  at  the 
railway  end  of  the  Avenue  a  shadow  seemed  to  falj 
across  their  own  table — a  shadow  of  what  was  coming ; 
but  they  only  said — 

"Three  houses  changed  hands  on  one  side  this 
autumn." 

"Yes.  The  doctor's  house  at  the  corner  is  to  let, 
too;  there's  no  telling  when  he'll  come  back,  and  he 
can't  get  a  locum."" 

"And  Miss  Felling  has  given  notice,  of  course.  She 
wants  a  smaller  house." 

"She'll  feel  it— after  all  these  years." 

But  none  of  the  Simpsons  mentioned  the  fact  thai 
they  also  had  given  notice  and  would  be  leaving  next 
Lady  Day:  the  girls  because  they  knew  vaguely  that 
Mr.  Simpson  in  some  mysterious  way  felt  himself  to 
blame  for  bringing  his  family  down  to  a  smaller  house 
in  a  back  street,  even  though  he  knew  he  was  not  to 
blame  at  all;  and  the  parents  because  they  nervously 
avoided  at  that  hour  of  the  morning  a  subject  which 


228  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

was  painful  to  both  of  them.  For  it  was  not,  to  them, 
just  leaving  a  house  in  Chestnut  Avenue  for  a  smaller 
one  elsewhere — it  was  leaving  the  material  fabric  on 
which  their  lives  had  been  built,  for  something  new 
and  cold,  un warmed  by  the  pleasant  habit  of  years. 

"The  Avenue  will  soon  seem  quite  different,"  said 
Barbara. 

"Yes.     Pass  the  bread,  please." 

And  a  picture  that  was  not  so  much  a  picture  as  a 
vague  inner  vision  already  formed  itself  with  slight 
differences  in  each  mind;  a  vision  of  this  little  com- 
pany of  the  Silent  Legion  disbanding  as  silently,  to 
take  their  stand  once  more  in  a  strange  place  with  no 
memories  to  keep  them  warm.  The  winds  of  life  blew 
pretty  shrewdly  across  poor  shabby  Mr.  Deane  as  he 
hurried  past  the  Simpsons'  that  foggy  morning,  and 
he  had  the  indescribable  ragged- feathered  and  forlorn 
look  of  a  bird  turned  out  of  the  nest,  though  he  was 
as  tidy  and  neatly  brushed  as  usual.  But  all  the  same 
— though  he  did  not  dream  of  such  a  thing — he  was 
really  carrying  the  banner  down  the  Avenue  for  the 
last  time,  with  the  Flodmouth  noises  playing  him  out 
just  like  any  other  soldier  of  England.  The  inscrip- 
tion :  "Bear  and  Say  Nothing,"  in  all  its  dull,  undra- 
matic  commonplaceness  could  be  read  plainly  enough 
by  the  eye  of  the  soul  as  he  turned  the  corner. 

Mrs.  Simpson  unconsciously  did  so  see  it. 

"We  must  go  and  call  on  Mrs.  Deane  as  soon  as 
they  are  settled,"  she  said. 

"You  never  called  when  they  were  in  the  Avenue," 
said  Barbara.  "Mrs.  Deane  is  a  tiresome,  gossiping 
little  woman." 

"Oh,  I  think  we'll  go,"  was  all  Mrs.  Simpson  said. 


SACRIFICE  229 


"Very  decent  chap — Deane,"  said  Mr.  Simpson 
rising;  for  he  also — though  even  more  unconsciously 
than  his  wife — had  seen  the  banner  go  past.  "Well! 
Time  I  was  off!" 

Elsie  took  in  the  letters  from  the  postman  and  ran 
upstairs  to  her  bedroom.  When  the  door  was  shut  she 
opened  a  long  envelope  with  fingers  that  trembled; 
then  her  face  went  very  pale  and  her  eyes  shone  like 
stars  under  her  untidy  mop  of  dark  hair.  On  the 
flimsy  paper  were  printed  four  verses  of  four  lines 
each — nothing  more  than  that  to  cause  such  a  look  of 
rapt  exultation.  And  yet  after  all  it  was  something 
more;  it  was  a  document  making  Elsie  Simpson  free 
of  that  brotherhood  who  have  loved  and  rejoiced  and 
suffered  for  the  written  word  throughout  the  ages. 
She  was  like  an  initiate  just  received  into  some  great 
mystery  as  she  stood  staring  out  of  the  window  at  a 
grey  cat  on  the  sparsely  leaved  branches  of  the  plane- 
tree.  One  part  of  her  longed  to  run  downstairs  shout- 
ing out:  "Mother !  I'm  an  Author !  They've  accepted 
my  verses!  I've  got  a  real  proof  to  correct!  I'm  an 
Author!" 

But  some  other  feeling,  stronger  even  than  that, 
forbade  her  to  tell  them.  The  sort  of  wild  secretive- 
ness  which  belongs  to  the  time  when  real  literary  talent 
is  growing  in  the  mind  of  such  a  girl  as  Elsie  kept  her 
fast  by  the  window  with  her  back  to  the  room  even 
when  Barbara  entered.  At  last  she  had  to  turn  round, 
but  it  was  with  a  face  so  startlingly  pale  and  eyes  so 
bright  that  her  sister  dropped  the  pillow  and  exclaimed, 
startled — 

"Elsie!     Whatever's  the  matter?" 


23Q THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Nothing!" 

She  moved  to  her  own  bed  and  began  to  make  it, 
while  Barbara  hastened  to  help  her:  as  they  straight- 
ened the  sheets,  Barbara  said — 

"Is  your  back  hurting?" 

"No.  I  wish  to  goodness  you'd  leave  my  back 
alone." 

"Oh,  all  right;  I  only  wanted  to  get  you  something 
for  it.  You  needn't  be  so  snappy." 

"I "  began  Elsie ;  then  to  Barbara's  surprise  she 

burst  out  crying.  "Oh,  Barbie,  I  didn't  mean  to  be 
horrid  .  .  .  only — only  The  London  Gazette  has  taken 
my  piece  of  poetry  and  they're  paying  me  t-ten  and  six- 
pence for  it." 

"Why,  Elsie — our  little  old  Elsie!"  cried  Barbara, 
running  round  the  bed.  "Oh!  Mother  always  said 
you  would  do  something,  some  day!" 

As  the  sisters  hugged  each  other,  with  the  clatter  of 
the  milk-cart  coming  in  through  the  open  window,  they 
saw  a  grotesquely  impossible  picture  of  an  author's 
career:  but  even  as  they  drew  apart,  the  emotional 
moment  ended,  and  Elsie  shamefacedly  "put  the  lid 
on  such  slopping  over,"  as  she  mentally  expressed  it, 
with  a  terse  remark  about  clean  toilet  covers. 

"But  I  must  talk  about  it,"  urged  Barbara.  "Oh, 
Elsie,  I'm  so  pleased,  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Fancy, 
when  your  first  novel  comes  out  and  we  see  it  on  the 
Library  shelves  when  we  go  to  change  a  book !" 

The  genuine  joy  in  Barbara's  tone  so  touched  Elsie 
and  she  said  abruptly,  holding  out  the  proof :  "Here, 
you  can  read  it!  But  don't  say  anything.  I  don't 
want  to  hear  anything  about  it." 

She  believed  herself  to  be  speaking  truth,  though  all 


SACRIFICE  231 


the  while  she  was  consumed  by  the  desire  for  praise 
or  blame  which  is  the  oil  which  makes  genius  burn — 
though  genius  often  denies  this — and  as  she  unneces- 
sarily beat  a  pillow  she  stole  an  eager  look  at  Barbara's 
downbent  face. 

"It's  lovely,"  said  Barbara  at  last,  looking  up. 
"Where  did  you  get  your  ideas  from — a  child  like 
you?  It's  simply  wonderful."  She  paused.  "Why, 
I've  felt  just  like  that  myself,  and  I  never  put  it  into 
words." 

Elsie  took  a  deep  delicious  breath,  drinking  in  her 
first  draught  of  the  elixir  which  makes  all  toil  and  bit- 
terness worth  while — the  joy  of  self-expression  when 
it  goes  home  to  another  human  soul.  But  she  only 
said  casually — 

"Oh,  it  came  into  my  head  one  night,  so  I  put  it 
down  and  sent  it  to  the  newspaper.  I  didn't  think  it 
was  any  good  after  I'd  got  it  posted." 

That  was  all  she  had  to  say  about  the  triumph  and 
ecstasy  of  creation — the  reaction  afterwards  when  the 
words  seem  without  meaning  and  void — the  new  sur- 
prise of  finding  them  good  after  all.  But  the  joy  of 
this  morning  when  she  stared  white-faced  at  the  cat 
in  the  plane-tree,  she  could  never  try  to  describe. 

When  Mrs.  Simpson  was  told  about  it,  she  flushed 
rosy  like  a  girl  in  her  happy  pride,  though  beneath 
her  joy  the  delicate  tentacles  of  her  soul  were  already 
conscious  of  a  little  cold  wind  blowing.  She  already 
shared  this  experience  with  the  wistful,  beautiful  type 
of  all  such  mothers :  the  one  who  came  up  every  year 
to  the  Temple,  bringing  a  garment  she  had  sewn  dur- 
ing twelve  long  months  of  parting. 


CHAPTER   XV 
A  JOURNEY'S  END 

AT  midday  the  sun  came  through  the  mist  and 
shone  pleasantly  on  the  narrow  street  where  Mr. 
Simpson  stepped  cork-like  among  his  peers,  past  many 
shops  that  had  been  there  ever  since  he  could  remem- 
ber. At  the  end  of  the  street,  facing  him,  was  a  tall 
pillar  bearing  the  statue  of  an  Apostle  of  Freedom 
which  over-topped  the  bridge  and  the  dock  offices,  and 
shot  up  straight  into  a  greyish  sky  permeated  with 
soft  light.  Mr.  Simpson  felt  heartened  at  the  sight 
of  it  somehow,  for  it  had  represented  to  him  since  he 
was  a  little  boy  what  he  now  understood  England  to 
be  fighting  for. 

As  he  walked  along  he  nodded  to  this  person  and 
lifted  his  hat  to  the  other,  cracking  jokes  when  he 
paused  for  a  moment,  with  waistcoat  advanced  and 
head  a  little  on  one  side,  as  usual.  "Heard  about  our 
new  typist?  Fluffy;  silk  stockings!  And,  'Oh,  Mr. 
Simpson,  I'm  so  bothered — ten  per  cent. — how  much  is 
that  a  year?'  But  an  uncommon  nice-looking  little 
girl,  I  must  say  .  .  ." 

And  Barbara,  just  behind,  emerging  unseen  from 
the  shop  where  her  grandmother's  wedding  dress  had 
been  bought,  felt  an  utter  sense  of  surprise  and  almost 
outrage  that  her  father  could  speak  in  that  tone  of 

232 


A  JOURNEY'S  END  233 

any  little  girl — he  being,  of  course,  to  her,  not  a  man, 
but  a  father;  a  distinction  clear  enough  to  anybody 
like  Barbara. 

Then  her  father's  friend  glimpsed  her  over  his 
shoulder  and  said  jauntily — 

"Oh!  Good-morning,  Miss  Simpson.  Lovely  day 
for  the  time  of  year." 

But  Barbara  responded  with  a  slight  distance  in  her 
tone — she  somehow  blamed  this  friend  for  her  parent's 
lapse — and  the  man  passed  on. 

"Well,  Barbara,  been  buying  the  shop?  I  saw  you 
through  an  office  window  going  in  an  hour  ago,"  said 
Mr.  Simpson,  unconscious  of  offence. 

"I've  just  been  getting  a  few  things,"  said  Barbara. 
Then  she  blushed,  and  tinglingly  aware  of  this  she 
flushed  deeper  and  deeper  until  the  crimson  flood 
invaded  her  neck  and  reached  her  hair.  "Everything 
is  awfully  dear,"  she  added,  with  a  nervous  laugh, 
looking  away  from  her  father. 

He  saw  her  discomfort  and  it  touched  him  acutely, 
for  he  imagined  that  she  thought  he  blamed  her — poor 
child — for  spending  her  bit  of  money  there.  His  own 
face  grew  rather  red  as  he  held  out  the  shilling  he  had 
intended  to  spend  on  his  lunch. 

"Here,  get  yourself  a  few  goodies  on  the  way  home, 
lass !" — the  dialect  put  on  to  conceal  his  emotion  after 
a  Flodmouth  fashion. 

"No!  No!"  But  he  slipped  the  shilling  into  her 
pocket  and  she  turned  and  walked  with  him,  though 
rather  silently.  They  approached  the  tall  monument, 
and  Mr.  Simpson  looked  and  seemed,  then,  almost 
exactly  as  he  had  done  five  years  ago.  Almost !  The 
difference  was  so  subtle  as  to  be  practically  invisible, 


234  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

and  yet  it  affected  all  he  said  and  thought  and  did — 
it  was  indeed  tremendous.  For  he  was  a  man  without 
a  dream.  In  boyhood  he  had  meant  to  do  all  sorts  of 
wonderful  things,  but  after  Jim  began  to  grow  up 
he  stopped  dreaming  for  himself  and  transferred  the 
dream  to  his  boy.  Jim  was  going  to  make  all  he  had 
hoped  for  of  life  come  true.  Now  that  was  over; 
and  the  loss  affected  every  sense  and  every  member, 
yet  no  one  could  detect  where  the  change  was,  not 
even  Mr.  Simpson  himself. 

He  and  Barbara  met  several  Flodmouth  men  who 
had  also  lost  only  sons,  and  they  were  just  like  him; 
they,  too,  were  men  walking  about  without  a  dream. 

Barbara  crossed  the  bridge  in  silence,  then  broke 
through  her  father's  anecdote  of  a  soldier  and  an 
inquisitive  lady  to  say  abruptly :  "I  had  a  letter  from 
Julian  this  morning." 

"Julian !"  For  the  moment  Mr.  Simpson,  engrossed 
in  his  tale,  failed  to  remember  who  Julian  was.  "Oh, 
Brooke,  you  mean.  Of  course." 

"He's  in  England!" 

"England!" 

Mr.  Simpson  had  a  sudden  memory  of  that  conver- 
sation with  Mrs.  Simpson,  and  said  hastily:  "I  hope 
the  poor  fellow  is  not  badly  wounded?" 

"Not  wounded  at  all,"  said  Barbara;  and  Mr. 
Simpson  knew  he  ought  not  to  have  felt  disappointed ; 
so  it  was  to  put  himself  right  with  himself  that  he 
jerked  out  heartily — 

"We  shall  be  seeing  him  soon  now — eh,  Barbara? 
That'll  be  something  like;  eh?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Barbara,  smiling  gratefully. 
"Julian  is  at  a  hospital  in  Cheltenham.  His  old  wound 


A  JOURNEY'S  END 235 

in  the  arm  has  broken  out  again  and  he  has  been 
suffering  from  neuritis  as  well." 

"That's  bad." 

"Yes."  Barbara  paused.  "Father,  I  want  to  go 
and  see  him." 

"Oh!"  Mr.  Simpson  looked  sharp  round  at  her. 
"What  does  your  Mother  say?" 

"I  don't  think  she  wants  me  to  go,"  admitted 
Barbara  reluctantly. 

"Well,  I  must  say  I'm  of  the  same  opinion  myself, 
Barbara,"  answered  Mr.  Simpson.  "You  see,  I  can't 
go  with  you — I  can't  get  off  from  the  office." 

"They  might  let  you  off  as  a  great  favour.  It's  not 
as  if  you  were  an  ordinary  clerk,  Father;  you  were  in 
business  yourself  before,  and  that  must  make  a 
difference." 

"It's  just  why  I  can't  possibly  ask,"  said  Mr. 
Simpson. 

And  Barbara,  not  so  dense  but  that  she  caught  a 
glimmering  of  what  he  meant,  was  fain  to  respond 
reluctantly — 

"Well— if  you  feel  like  that "  Then  she 

added :  "But  there's  no  earthly  reason  why  I  shouldn't 
go  alone.  We  don't  live  in  the  days  when  girls  had  to 
have  somebody  tacked  on  to  them  wherever  they  went 
for  fear  they  should  get  'up  to'  something."  She 
raised  her  head  proudly :  "I'm  to  be  trusted." 

"I  know  you  are.  Still,  we  must  think  of  appear- 
ances, you  know."  Thus  Mr.  Simpson  clucked  on  the 
edge  of  the  pond,  never  having  quite  moulted  his 
Mid-Victorian  feathers.  "I  really  don't  think  you 
ought  to  go  alone,  Barbara."  Then  he  saw  his  pretty 


236  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

girl  look  unhappy,  and  he  so  hated  to  see  it  that  he 
concluded  weakly:  "Perhaps  Elsie " 

But  Barbara  did  not  want  Elsie. 

She'd  only  get  knocked  up  with  the  long  journey. 
You  know  that,  Father;  besides,  think  of  the  awful 
expense !" 

"Yes,"  agreed  Mr.  Simpson,  seizing  on  this  idea 
with  avidity.  "Of  course,  now  the  fares  are  raised 
it  will  be  quite  an  expensive  journey!  I  don't  see  how 
I  am  to  find  the  money." 

"You  won't  have  to,"  said  Barbara.  "I  went  to 
the  Savings  Bank  and  took  out  all  my  birthday  and 
Christmas  money  I  had  in  there.  It  was  quite  a  lot — • 
over  twenty  pounds." 

"I'm  sorry  you  did  that,"  said  Mr.  Simpson.  "You 
had  no  need  to  do  that.  If  your  Mother  and  I  had 
agreed  to  let  you  go,  we  should  have  found  the  money 
somehow.  I  wish  you  hadn't  done  that."  As  he  spoke 
they  were  passing  down  a  street  not  far  from  the 
Savings  Bank,  and  he  added  gravely,  but  kindly : 
"Come  with  me  now  and  put  it  back  again,  Barbara. 
You  may  want  your  little  nest-egg  far  more  than  you 
do  now." 

But  Barbara  stood  still  a  moment  and  let  the  people 
at  that  busy  corner  surge  round  about  her  unheeded. 

"No,  Father,"  she  said,  looking  him  straight  in  the 
face.  "As  long  as  I  live,  I  can't  want  it  for  anything 
more  than  I  do  for  this.  I  must  go.  I  must.  You 
don't  know.  You  can't  understand."  Her  lips  trem- 
bled. "I  want  to  see  him." 

"Then  where  do  you  imagine  you  are  going  to 
stay?"  he  said.  "Do  you  contemplate  going  to  the 
hotel  by  yourself?" 


A  JOURNEY'S  END  237 

"I  shouldn't  mind  that !"  flung  out  Barbara.  "But 
as  it  happens  I  have  the  address  of  a  sort  of  boarding- 
house  where  Miss  Felling  stays  sometimes,  and  I  have 
wired  to  ask  if  they  can  take  me  in."  She  looked 
round  and  her  defiant  mood  immediately  turned  into 
rather  shaky  laughter.  "Oh,  you  dear  old  Dad!  For 
goodness'  sake,  don't  look  like  that!  There's  simply 
not  a  soul  at  that  boarding-house  under  sixty,  I 
believe." 

"Wired!"  gasped  Mr.  Simpson.  "You've  actually 
wired  without  consulting  anybody !" 

"I  told  Mother,"  said  Barbara. 

"Told  Mother!"  repeated  Mr.  Simpson.  "So  this 
is  what  we  get  for  years  of  devotion,  care  and  the 
hundreds  we  have  spent  on  your  schooling — told 
Mother !"  And  he  made  a  noise  between  a  snort  and 
a  grunt,  being  all  the  more  fierce  and  blustering  because 
he  felt  he  was  just  going  to  give  in.  "Why  can't  you 
wait  till  Brooke  comes  here?  It's  just  a  fancy  you've 
got." 

Barbara  gave  him  a  side  look,  very  odd  and  in- 
scrutable, full  of  the  circuitous  woman's  wisdom  which 
is  born  in  the  female  child  and  no  man  can  quite  under- 
stand. But  she  hid  her  deep  motive  and  let  it  go  as 
a  whim,  like  millions  before  her. 

"You  can't  help  having  fancies.  I  feel  I  must  go 
to  him  now  he  is  in  England." 

"Well,  if  you  will,  you  will,  I  suppose,"  sighed  Mr. 
Simpson ;  but  a  stirring  of  the  jealousy  which  a  father 
feels  in  hearing  his  girl  speak  of  her  lover  made  him 
add  testily — 

"Go,  then,  if  you  are  so  set  on  it!  Though  I  must 
say  I  can't  see  anything  so  wonderful  about  the  fel- 


238  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

low."  Then  a  sense  of  justice  forced  him  to  add: 
"Not  that  I  know  anything  against  him — on  the 
contrary." 

Barbara  slipped  her  hand  through  her  father's  arm 
and  squeezed  it  tenderly. 

"Thank  you,  Dad."  And  she  added,  smiling:  "/ 
know  what  you  have  against  Julian.  You  wanted  me 
to  marry  a  sort  of  sainted  millionaire  with  a  good 
temper  and  plenty  of  pleasant  relations." 

"Nonsense !"  Mr.  Simpson  also  smiled,  reluctantly. 
"I'm  only  thinking  about  your  happiness,  my  girl; 
you  know  that." 

And  he  thought  he  spoke  the  truth,  but  it  was  only 
a  half  truth;  for  he  desired  also,  like  most  fathers, 
to  be  proud  of  his  daughter's  marriage,  just  as  he  had 
hoped  to  be  proud  of  his  son's  career. 

When  Barbara  reached  home  she  found  the  cold 
lunch  of  which  the  female  members  were  partaking 
in  Mr.  Simpson's  absence  already  on  the  table.  Mrs. 
Simpson  looked  up  from  cutting  the  bread  with  her 
pretty,  anxious  smile — 

"Well,  dear?    Got  the  margarine?" 

"Oh,  I  forgot!    I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Barbara. 

Then  Elsie  entered,  carrying  a  large  cardboard 
dress-box  which  she  placed  on  the  sofa. 

"This  has  just  come  from  Harrison's:  marked 
'Urgent.'  Whatever  have  you  been  getting,  Barbara?" 

Barbara  frowned  and  flushed  deeply  again  as  she 
had  done  when  she  came  out  of  the  shop  and  encoun- 
tered her  father,  but  she  walked  straight  to  the  box, 
took  up  a  dinner  knife  and  cut  the  string. 

"There!"  she  said,  lifting  out  a  pretty,  neat  coat  and 


A  JOURNEY'S  END  239 

skirt  of  dark  blue  and  a  blouse  of  pale  apricot  colour. 
"That's  what  I've  got;  they're  to  go  to  Cheltenham 
in." 

"My  dear !  You  must  have  spent  nearly  ten  pounds !" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Simpson. 

"I  did,  Mother;  but  it  was  my  own  money.  I  had 
a  right  to  spend  it  as  I  liked,"  said  Barbara,  putting 
the  things  down  on  the  sofa  end  and  moving  to  her 
seat  at  table.  "I  inquired  about  the  train,  too ;  it  leaves 
at  nine." 

"Then  you're  really  going?"  said  Elsie,  wide-eyed 
and  rather  subdued.  "I  thought  you  were  just  kid- 
ding before  you  went  out." 

"Oh,  did  you?     Salt,  please." 

And  the  little  meal  was  finished  almost  in  silences 
both  Barbara  and  Mrs.  Simpson  feeling  as  if  every 
mouthful  were  mixed  with  sand;  but  they  managed 
to  swallow  what  was  on  their  plates  and  at  last  it  was 
time  to  clear  the  table. 

"You  can  go  and  rest,  Elsie.  I  will  help  Barbara 
to  wash  up,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson  in  a  low  tone;  and 
Elsie  went. 

For  a  moment  or  two  Mrs.  Simpson  stood  outside 
the  kitchen  door  listening  to  Barbara  clattering  the 
plates  inside.  It  was  an  immense  effort  to  her  to  force 
herself  into  her  daughter's  confidence,  but  she  had  to 
do  it.  As  she  went  in  Barbara  looked  round  from  the 
sink  without  smiling. 

"Why  aren't  you  lying  down?"  she  said  curtly. 

"Barbara,  what  does  this  all  mean?"  said  Mrs. 
Simpson. 

"You  know.  It  means  I'm  going  to  see  Julian," 
said  Barbara,  continuing  to  clatter  plates. 


24Q  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

But  even  in  face  of  that  Mrs.  Simpson  forced  her- 
self to  go  on.  She  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of 
Barbara,  but  she  was  so  terribly  afraid  of  intruding. 
All  the  same  she  made  herself  say:  "Those  new 
clothes !  You're — you're  not  thinking  of  getting  mar- 
ried without  telling  us,  Barbara?" 

"No." 

"You'll  promise  me  not  to  do  that,  Barbara?" 

There  was  no  reply.  Barbara  made  a  noise  with  a 
pile  of  dry  crockery  and  carried  it  into  the  pantry. 
Mrs.  Simpson  followed.  It  was  an  extraordinary 
reversal  of  any  scene  that  could  have  taken  place  be- 
tween Mrs.  Simpson  and  her  mother. 

"Barbara,  don't  you  hear  me?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  make  any  promises.  I  told  you 
I  had  no  intention  of  marrying  without  your  knowl- 
edge. I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  bother  me  so." 

"You  are  my  daughter.  I  must  try  to  take  care  of 
you." 

"It's  very  good  of  you,  Mother,  but  I  am  quite  well 
able  to  take  care  of  myself,"  said  Barbara;  then  she 
took  up  a  basin  of  refuse  and  went  out  of  the  back 
door  into  the  garden. 

Mrs.  Simpson's  lip  trembled,  but  she  controlled  her- 
self. So  this  was  the  reality  of  the  scene  she  had  so 
often  pictured  when  she  and  Barbara  should  talk 
together  about  a  wedding.  Slowly,  heavily,  she  went 
to  her  sofa  and  lay  down. 

In  the  evening  when  she  and  Mr.  Simpson  were 
alone  together,  after  the  girls  had  gone  to  bed,  she  told 
him  what  had  happened. 

"I  can't  make  Barbara  out,"  he  said.     "That  man 


A  JOURNEY'S  END  241 

seems  to  have  quite  changed  her  nature.  She  seems 
to  care  about  nothing  and  nobody  so  long  as  she  can 
get  to  him." 

"Yes — I  must  say  I  almost  wondered  a  little  when 
she  was  so  ready  to  go  to  Scarcliffe,"  hesitated  Mrs. 
Simpson.  "I  should  have  made  her  go  in  any  case, 
of  course,  but  I  thought  she  would  take  a  little  per- 
suading." 

"Dear  me!  I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Mr. 
Simpson.  "You  may  bet  your  life  that  was  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  Otherwise  she  would  have  insisted  on 
your  going  with  Elsie.  You  wanted  the  change  more 
than  she  did."  He  rattled  his  paper  impatiently. 
"The  chap  seems  to  have  bewitched  her.  I  suppose 
it's  no  use  forbidding  her  to  go  to  Cheltenham." 

Mrs.  Simpson  shook  her  head. 

"She  would  go  all  the  same — and  with  a  bitter  feel- 
ing towards  us  that  might  drive  her  into  any  folly." 
There  was  a  pause,  some  ashes  dropped  on  the  hearth  ; 
then  Mrs.  Simpson  roused  herself  to  comfort  her  hus- 
band. "I  wouldn't  worry  too  much,  Sam.  Barbara 
is  to  be  trusted." 

"But  she's  so  altered.  I  never  thought  our  girl  could 
get  like  this,  Harriet,"  said  poor  Mr.  Simpson.  "She 
doesn't  seem  to  care  tuppence  about  us — after  all  the 
love  and  care  we've  given  her." 

"No,  no,  Sam.  It  isn't  that."  And  a  very  sweet 
smile  lit  up  Mrs.  Simpson's  tired  face.  "She'll  come 
back  to  us :  it's  only  for  the  time  being.  I've  known 
other  girls  just  the  same  and  they  all  came  back  in 
the  end." 

"Well,  I  never  thought  Barbara  would  be  like  that, 
though." 


242  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

Neither  did  Mrs.  Simpson,  really:  for  she  had 
cherished  unconsciously  the  beautiful  belief  of  all 
mothers  that  their  children  will  be  the  chosen  ones  who 
do  not  hurt  their  parents;  but  she  ranged  herself  be- 
side her  daughter  and  said  cheerfully  enough :  "After 
;all,  it  might  have  been  much  worse.  At  least  Julian 
is  a  gentleman  and  possessed  of  some  little  private 
means.  It  may  be  a  very  happy  marriage." 

"I  wish  to  goodness  she'd  taken  Frank  Garret," 
muttered  Mr.  Simpson,  "not  that  I  care  much  about 
him,  personally,  only  I  think  she  would  have  had  a 
greater  chance  of  happiness." 

"Well,  there  it  is!"  said  Mrs.  Simpson,  but  after 
a  minute  or  two  she  added  vehemently:  "And  yet 
people  laugh  at  love — when  it's  the  thing  that  shapes 
more  lives  than  anything  else  in  the  world !" 

"Yes."  For  a  minute  or  two  Mr.  Simpson  also 
brooded.  But  soon  he  bestirred  himself  to  say,  with 
a  chuckle  that  had  no  heart  in  it:  "One  of  the  key 
trades  since  the  beginning  and  always  will  be,  Amen; 
eh,  Harriet?" 

So  they  turned  back  the  hearth-rug  and  lit  a  night- 
light  on  the  mantelpiece  in  case  of  an  alarm  and  went 
to  bed. 

When  the  train  was  once  really  off,  and  Barbara 
saw  the  familiar  mud-banks  running  along  past  her 
carriage  windows,  she  experienced  a  sense  of  relief 
which  entirely  ousted  any  thought  of  regret  for  those 
she  was  leaving  behind.  The  newspaper  which  Mr. 
Simpson  had  given  her  lay  unread  on  her  knee  while 
she  sat  back  luxuriating  in  a  cessation  of  the  strain 


A  JOURNEY'S  END 243 

under  which  she  had  lived  since  receiving  Brooke's 
letter  on  the  previous  morning. 

Some  alteration  of  the  train  service  obliged  her  to 
go  round  by  Leeds,  and  she  spent  two  hours  in  a  place, 
half  buffet,  half  waiting-room,  with  people  constantly 
coming  and  going,  and  an  odd  gloom  of  unreality 
pervading  everything — as  if  it  were  a  waiting-room 
in  a  rather  unpleasant  dream.  By  degrees,  however, 
one  other  passenger  emerged  from  the  general  unsub- 
stantiality,  and  Barbara  noticed  a  female  in  a  black 
dress  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace,  who 
was  evidently  waiting  for  the  same  train  as  herself; 
and  who  kept  taking  some  sort  of  meat  lozenge  from  a 
small  tin  box,  sucking  it  earnestly,  and  then  abstract- 
ing another  so  as  to  be  ready  the  moment  the  last  was 
eaten.  Her  hair  was  yellow  and  her  clothes  were  a 
travesty  of  extreme  youthful  fashion,  though  she  must 
have  been  over  forty.  Barbara's  faint  interest  deep- 
ened into  a  light  contempt  as  she  watched  her  fellow 
passenger  alternately  patting  her  hair,  arranging  her 
hat  and  sucking.  At  last  the  woman  leaned  forward 
and  said — 

"Tiresome  having  to  wait  so  long  here.  Won't  you 
take  a  beef  lozenge?  I  find  I  must  keep  myself  up." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Barbara. 

"You're  on  your  way  to  Cheltenham,  no  doubt? 
I  was  going  to  see  my  brother  there,  but  I  received 
news  this  morning  that  he  had  died  in  hospital.  We 
were  twins  and  had  always  lived  together.  He  was  a 
vegetarian  and  wore  hygienic  clothing  before  he  joined 
up,  but  we  never  allowed  divergence  of  views  to  make 
any  difference.  We  were  very  happy  together."  She 
wiped  her  eyes.  "I  don't  think  I  can  go  to  the 


244  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

Literary  Lectures  alone  this  winter.  The  tickets  for 
the  course  came  just  before  I  started."  She  looked 
at  Barbara,  suddenly  frightened.  "I  don't  know  what 
I'm  going  to  do.  I've  nobody  else." 

Barbara  could  say  nothing  for  the  catch  in  her 
throat  and  the  little  lady  went  on  almost  immediately : 
"That's  why  I'm  eating  these  lozenges.  I  am  very 
anxious  to  keep  up.  I  know  he  would  like  me  to  keep 
up.  He  did  so  dislike  crying  and  that  sort  of  thing." 
She  paused  and  held  out  the  tin  box:  "Won't  you 
have  one?" 

As  Barbara  took  a  lozenge  and  held  it  in  her  hand, 
a  deep  crimson  surged  over  face  and  neck.  She  was 
suddenly  seized  with  a  violent,  unreasoning  horror  of 
war — such  as  many  women  have  felt  during  the  past 
three  years.  War  was  an  evil  thing.  Whatever 
glorious  deeds  and  thoughts  came  too,  it  was  evil. 

Then  she  heard  the  woman  saying:  "Here  is  our 
train,"  and  they  went  to  it.  There  was  no  chance  for 
further  talk  in  the  crowded  railway  carriage,  and  Bar- 
bara soon  began  to  think  of  her  own  affairs  as  the 
train  rushed  along  hour  after  hour  through  the  autumn 
fields.  All  the  same,  beneath  her  thoughts  of  that 
meeting  which  drew  so  near  now — in  the  same  way 
that  the  Flodmouth  noises  and  the  sound  of  the  waves 
had  accompanied  their  real  meetings — was  a  murmur 
that  she  did  not  notice  either;  but  her  soul  heard  it. 

The  Promenade  at  Cheltenham  is  a  delightful  place 
about  tea-time  on  an  early  November  day,  with  the 
sun  just  setting  and  the  lights  all  twinkling  out  An 
old  rook  going  home  often  caws  with  the  pleasant 
quaintness  of  a  dairy-maid  going  through  the  city,  and 


A  JOURNEY'S  END  24  £ 

the  high  trees  gently  let  fall  their  yellow  leaves  upon 
the  stir  of  traffic  and  the  constant  trip-trip-trip  of 
moving  feet  on  the  wide,  clean  pavement.  Then,  on 
the  further  side  of  the  road  are  fine  shops  having  in 
them  all  manner  of  gay  things  to  wear,  and  florists 
with  great  vases  of  flowers,  and  splendid  booksellers; 
while  to  the  left  of  the  noble  pathway  under  the  high 
trees  are  little  narrow  gardens  set  with  statues  and 
fountains,  and  beyond  them  again  are  seen  the  tall 
straight-fronted  houses  set  in  a  row  with  old-fashioned 
primness  and  quietude  against  the  advancing  evening. 

As  Barbara  came  down  the  steps  of  one  of  these 
houses  she  received  an  impression  of  something  or- 
dered and  old  and  leisurely  which  had  adapted  itself 
in  the  most  beautiful  way  to  the  needs  of  the  passing 
hour.  It  was  so  lovely  and  yet  so  fitting  and  English, 
down  to  the  very  women  who  walked  along  the  pave- 
ments with  their  sophisticated  charm  and  pretty  faded 
faces — women  who  had  been  bleached  under  Indian 
suns  or  had  grown  worn-looking  with  following  the 
drum  to  palmy,  forgotten  places.  And  that  fresh  youth 
might  be  there  too,  a  string  of  blue-clad  girls  came 
along  with  eyes  bright  and  cheeks  all  rosy  in  the  cold. 

For  a  little  while  Barbara  forgot  the  worry  and  sad- 
ness which  had  preceded  her  journey  and  only  felt 
she  was  going  to  meet  her  lover.  It  seemed  right  that 
he  should  come  towards  her  on  that  broad  walk  in  his 
blue  hospital  uniform,  just  as  she  had  first  seen  him. 
She  knew  a  moment  of  perfect  happiness. 

"I  was  so  sorry  I  couldn't  get  to  the  train  to  meet 
you,"  he  said. 

And  yet  he  said  a  thousand  other  things;  the  still, 
dampish  air  that  was  fragrant  of  fallen  leaves  vibrated 


246  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

between  them  with  the  lovely  things  they  were  saying 
to  each  other. 

"You  told  me  you  might  not  be  able  to  meet  me.  I 
found  the  boarding-house  all  right.  It's  just  over 
there,"  said  Barbara. 

"I  never  thought  you'd  really  come.  Oh,  Barbara, 
I  can  scarcely  believe  it!  I  can  scarcely  believe  it 
yet!" 

Then  they  noticed  a  smile — a  very  kind  little  smile 
— on  the  face  of  a  woman  passing;  and  they  suddenly 
realised  they  were  still  holding  hands. 

"Let  us  go  and  have  some  tea,"  he'  said.  "There's 
u  capital  place  just  across  the  way.  I  say;  isn't  this 
.glorious  ?" 

"Oh,  Julian;  it  seems  too  good  to  be  true." 

So  they  went  across  the  road,  he  with  his  hand  in 
her  arm  to  show  all  the  world  she  was  his,  and  she 
leaning  a  little  towards  him  to  show  all  the  world  he 
was  hers.  Then  they  reached  the  clean  pavement  that 
sounded  so  pleasantly  under  Barbara's  tapping  heels, 
and  followed  a  fat  lady  into  the  big  confectioner's  shop 
at  the  corner. 

The  ground  floor  covered  with  little  tables  was 
almost  full,  but  they  found  a  place  in  an  alcove  and 
looked  round  from  that  harbourage  on  piles  of  cakes, 
and  announcements  about  Christmas  parcels,  and  on 
the  faces  of  people  who  were  cheerful  for  the  sake  of 
others  if  they  could  not  be  so  for  themselves. 

"Care !"  said  Barbara,  taking  an  excuse  for  touching 
her  lover.  "I  see  your  poor  arm  is  in  a  sling;  you 
must  not  let  people  brush  against  it."  And  he  was  so 
thrilled  by  her  touch  that  he  could  scarcely  answer  her 
for  the  moment. 


A  JOURNEY'S  END 247 

They  praised  the  tea — never  tasted  such  excellent 
tea.  They  praised  the  cake — no  one  would  think  it 
was  war-time.  They  even  praised  the  limitation  of 
food,  and  said  how  much  better  many  people  would 
be  in  consequence.  In  the  end  they  went  so  far  as 
to  praise  an  elderly  gentleman  near  who  kept  saying 
over  and  over  again:  "I  call  this  a  damn  bad  tea. 
Martha,  don't  }rou  hear  me?  I  call  this  a  damn  bad 
tea,"  and  thought  that  he  was  a  most  amusing  old 
person.  In  fact,  the  shop,  Cheltenham,  the  universe 
— was  on  that  November  afternoon  set  out  for  their 
enjoying. 

"I  can't  understand  how  you  ever  got  your  people 
to  let  you  come  off  like  this  all  by  yourself,"  said 
Brooke  suddenly,  when  they  were  half  way  through 
their  meal. 

"Oh,  I  managed  it  all  right,"  said  Barbara,  crum- 
bling her  cake  and  glancing  bright-eyed  about  her. 
"But  we  won't  talk  about  things  like  that  just  yet, 

Julian.  Let's  simply  be  jolly.  I've  done "  She 

was  sombre  for  a  second :  "I've  done  enough  thinking 
and  worrying  lately." 

"Poor  little  girl !"  He  touched  her  hand  under  the 
table — her  broad-palmed,  slender-fingered  hand  that 
was  now  slightly  roughened  and  reddened  with  work 
— and  his  touch  ran  through  her  veins  like  fire;  she 
thought  passionately  that  she  would  recognise  that 
touch  if  she  were  blind — if  she  were  dead.  Her  face 
was  white  and  her  blue  eyes  looked  black  under  the 
shadow  of  her  hat  as  she  whispered — 

"Oh,  I've  wanted  you  so,  Julian!  I've  wanted  you 
so  dreadfully!" 

"And  me — what  about  me,  Barbara?" 


248  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

He  held  her  hand  so  tightly  that  it  hurt,  but  the 
pain  only  added  to  her  joy — she  liked  him  to  hurt  her. 
The  little  pain  seemed  to  prick  home  the  rapture  of 
their  secret  contact  amid  this  crowd  of  people. 

"Did  you  think  of  me  a  lot  when  you  were  out 
there?  Even  when  you  went  into  action?" 

"I  never  thought  of  you  and  I  always  did;  I  never 
had  to  think  of  you.  You  were  always  there  in  my 
mind.  But  when  a  man  goes  into  action  he  doesn't 
think  about  anything — at  least  I  didn't — he  just  feels 
ready " 

"Ready  for  what?" 

Barbara  leant  towards  him,  lips  parted,  eyes  darkly 
dilated,  and  the  sight  of  her  thus  made  him  pull  up 
short. 

"Oh,  ready  for  off,"  he  said.  "Here,  have  another 
cake?"  And  he  withdrew  his  hand  to  pass  the  plate. 

She  drew  a  long  breath  and  sat  straighter,  feeling 
a  little  chilled  and  rebuffed. 

"I've  finished,  thank  you,"  she  said.  "Shall  we  be 
going?" 

She  helped  him  carefully  into  his  overcoat  which 
hung  loose  over  his  damaged  arm  and  covered  the  blue 
uniform.  It  was  already  almost  dark  when  they  came 
out,  and  stars  were  beginning  to  shine  here  and  there 
in  the  sapphire  sky  over  the  tall  trees  on  the  other 
side  of  the  wide  road.  As  they  felt  the  fresh  air  in 
their  faces  the  mood  of  the  last  few  minutes  cleared 
away,  and  they  felt  lightly  joyful  once  more  in  each 
other's  company. 

"I  say!    How  pretty  the  shops  look,  Julian!" 

"Yes.    There's  a  jeweller's  here  I  want  you  to  see." 

"What  for?" 


A  JOURNEY'S  END 249 

He  slipped  his  right  arm  into  hers  and  laughed  in 
her  upturned  face. 

"You  know,  you  little  humbug!  By  the  way, 
where  have  you  got  the  two  bits  of  that  wedding-ring 
I  gave  you?" 

"I  have  them  in  my  purse.  I  wanted  to  wear  them 
round  my  neck,  as  I  said;  but  I  couldn't,  because  of 
Elsie." 

"Elsie!    What's  Elsie  to  do  with  it?" 

"We  share  a  room  together.     She'd  see." 

"Well!"  He  still  kept  her  arm,  but  she  felt  him 
stiffen.  "You're  not  ashamed  of  it,  are  you?" 

"Of  course  not."  She  clung  tighter.  "You  know 
I'm  not.  Only  Elsie  makes  such  fun  ...  I  didn't  want 
any  one  to  .  .  ."  She  paused  and  said  in  a  very  low 
tone:  "It — it  was  so  awfully  private,  Julian!  So 
just  between  you  and  me  ...  I  didn't  like  .  .  ." 

"No,  no !    I  see.    I'm  glad  you  didn't." 

And  in  the  faint  light  from  the  shop  window  she 
saw  how  his  seamed  and  vivid  face  glowed  with  pale 
adoration  of  her  girl's  reticence  and  sweetness.  His 
dark  eyes  burnt  into  hers  as  he  drew  her  away  from 
the  window. 

"Come  inside,  dear.  I'm  going  to  choose  you 
another." 

She  held  back.  He  was  surprised  and  ^  .if  mad- 
dened by  her  sudden  oncomings  and  withdrawals,  and 
yet  he  was  sure  she  was  no  coquette;  they  were  abso- 
lutely the  reflection  of  her  feeling — they  mirrored 
something  deep  and  hidden  in  her  girl's  heart  that  a 
man  perhaps  could  not  understand. 

"Don't  you  want  another  ring  from  me,  Barbara?" 
he  said  gently.  "I  mean  an  engagement  ring,  of  course. 


25Q THE  SILENT  LEGION 

We  will  have  the  broken  wedding-ring  put  together 
again  somehow  and  get  married  with  that;  I  couldn't 
like  any  other  so  well." 

He  was  groping — trying  to  find  out  what  she  wanted 
— what  she  had  in  her  mind. 

"I'm — I'm  tired!"  she  said  with  a  little  half-sob. 
"I'd  rather  not  choose  one  to-night,  Julian." 

"Why,"  he  gave  in  at  once,  "what  a  brute  I  am! 
I  ought  to  have  remembered — after  all  that  long  jour- 
ney and  the  fuss  and  bother  of  getting  off.  .  .  .  And  I 
dare  say  you  didn't  sleep  much  last  night.  Poor  little 
Barbara!  Poor  little  Barbara!  You'll  think  I  shall 
make  a  nice  husband.  I'll  just  take  you  to  your  board- 
ing-house and  go  back  to  the  hospital.  It's  time  I 
went  in,  anyway." 

They  crossed  the  road  to  the  beautiful  broad  walk 
under  the  high  trees,  and  so  many  leaves  had  fallen 
that  the  dark  sky  gleamed  through,  lighted  by  the 
stars. 

"All  right  now?"  he  whispered. 

"Yes." 

They  walked  in  silence,  filled  with  the  joy  of  being 
together — everything  else  seemed  to  have  faded  out 
of  their  lives.  Then  he  took  her  to  her  boarding-house 
and  their  parting  was  witnessed  by  a  thin  lady  usher-- 
ing out  a  female  guest 


CHAPTER   XVI 

CHELTENHAM 

NEXT  morning  Barbara  came  downstairs  some- 
what early  to  breakfast  and  noticed  through  the 
open  doorway  of  the  dining-room  that  the  same  thin 
lady  was  before  her.  She  paused  a  moment  before 
entering,  and  her  shoes  were  noiseless,  so  she  saw  her 
fellow-boarder  hastily  changing  one  pat  of  butter  for 
another  which  looked  larger  and  more  appetising. 

"Oh!"  said  the  lady,  caught  pat  on  knife  half-way 
across  the  room,  and  speaking  almost  gushingly  to 
conceal  the  doubtful  situation.  "Lovely  morning,  isn't 
it?  I  am  starting  breakfast  early  as  I  have  to  be  at 
the  hospital  as  soon  as  possible.  Life  is  such  a  rush 
now-a-days,  is  it  not?" 

And  she  sat  down  drumming  with  her  fingers  on  the 
table,  eager  to  give  the  impression  that  her  duties  of 
washing  up  crockery  for  a  few  hours  two  days  a  week 
kept  her  in  a  stress  and  strain  which  needed — if  any- 
thing were  thought  by  Barbara — the  support  of  some- 
body else's  margarine. 

But  though  neither  she  nor  Barbara  saw  it,  she  was 
not  a  thin,  nervous  and  rather  unoccupied  lady  of  the 
middle-class;  she  was  a  sign  of  something  rather  stu- 
pendous :  a  sign  that  the  middle-class  Englishwoman  is 
no  longer  ashamed  of  work;  she  is  ashamed  of  idle- 
ness. 

251 


252  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

Later  in  tKe  day,  Barbara  sat  on  a  seat  just  beyond 
the  quaint  and  narrow  gardens  which  divided  the  paved 
way  before  the  boarding-house  from  the  walk  under 
the  trees.  A  little  marble  fountain  was  playing  near 
at  hand,  and  the  leaves  fell  softly,  gently,  every  now 
and  then;  resting  like  flakes  of  gold  on  the  water.  A 
leisured  traffic  passed  up  and  down  on  the  main  road, 
not  enough  to  trouble  an  onlooker,  and  yet  giving  a 
sense  of  movement  and  life.  On  the  broad  pavement 
across  the  road,  Barbara  could  see  through  this  still, 
sunnily-misty  air,  the  same  sort  of  women  as  walked 
there  the  evening  before  wearing  even  the  dowdiest, 
shabbiest  clothes  with  an  air  which  marked  them  out 
as  not  provincial.  They  had  been  out  into  the  world, 
"for  to  see  and  to  admire,"  and  though  they  might 
have  settled  down  to  a  very  narrow  and  bickering  old 
age  here,  they  bore  the  impress  of  where  they  had 
wandered  in  the  first  flush  of  youth.  Old  men  moved 
among  them,  stopping  to  speak  with  a  dim  reflection 
of  past  gallantry,  and  a  few  lads  on  leave  or  in  hospital 
went  along  either  alone  or  in  company:  but  whoever 
it  was,  they  nearly  all  looked  cheerily  out  at  life,  obey- 
ing the  unwritten  order  that  no  British  gentleman-in- 
arms should  pull  a  long  face. 

Barbara  was  just  beginning  to  feel  cold  in  spite  of 
the  pale  sunshine  which  lay  so  beautifully  on  the  stained 
marble  (stained  greyish,  and  not  golden,  as  it  would 
have  been  out  of  England)  and  upon  the  delicate 
spirals  of  water  and  the  yellow  leaves  floating  in  the 
basin.  So  she  rose  and  walked  slowly  up  and  down 
for  awhile  until  at  last  she  saw  Brooke  crossing  the 
road.  Instantly,  all  that  had  been  charming  before 
took  on  an  aching  beauty  that  permeated  her  soul,  more 


CHELTENHAM  253 

like  something  remembered  than  a  scene  actually  be- 
fore the  eyes. 

He  grasped  her  hand  and  held  it,  searching  her  face, 
making  sure  of  her  presence;  it  seemed  as  if  life  could 
scarcely  hold  such  happiness. 

"Did  you  sleep  well?  Are  you  comfortable  in  your 
boarding-house  ?" 

Then  they  walked  on  because  they  were  again  forced 
to  become  aware  of  passers-by;  this  time  a  lady  with 
a  little,  yapping  dog  who  was  eyeing  them  with  fat 
contempt;  it  seemed  so  ridiculous  to  her  because  she 
had  long  passed  by  or  never  known  that  joy.  And  at 
a  place  where  three  roads  met,  they  paused  a  minute 
and  chose  a  wide  one  with  the  great  yellowing  trees 
still  edging  one  side  and  straight-fronted,  tall  houses 
on  the  other.  As  they  passed  a  seat  with  two  soldiers 
sitting  on  it,  one  man  said  to  the  other,  in  a  voice  which 
the  lovers  could  not  help  hearing — 

"Well — arm  or  no  arm — he's  all  right !" 

And  the  lovers  smiled  into  each  other's  faces,  their 
pleasure  in  some  way  made  more  keen  by  this  expres- 
sion of  good-natured  envy. 

"Poor  chaps !  I  wish  they  were  in  the  same  boat," 
said  Brooke. 

"So  do  I.  Oh,  I  do  wish  we  could  give  them  some 
treat.  Is  there  no  treat  we  could  give  them?"  cried 
Barbara,  face  sweetly  flushed  and  all  alight. 

But  Brooke  was  not  so  altruistic  as  all  that,  and  he 
drew  her  on,  laughing  at  her  tenderly. 

"We  can't  give  them  their  wives  and  sweethearts, 
old  girl,"  he  said.  "Not  that  they're  all  so  very  keen 
on  having  their  wives ;  you  can't  blame  'em  either." 

"Fancy  marriage  ever  getting  to  that,  Julian!" 


254  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

It  seemed  incredible  to  Barbara — incredible  even  to 
Brooke,  who  had  known  the  reality  of  marriage,  be- 
cause love  is  like  spring,  renewing  everything. 

But  the  word  marriage  sang  in  his  ears;  he  put  his 
hand  through  her  arm  and  murmured  passionately: 
"I've  not  kissed  you  properly  since  you  came.  I  must, 
somehow.  I  can  make  allowances  now  for  the  poor 
beggars  you  see  making  such  fools  of  themselves  in 
the  streets  and  parks  in  an  evening.  How  are  they 
to  do  differently  when  they've  nowhere  else  to  go  ?" 

Barbara  trembled  before  his  fierceness  and  yet  it  was 
a  joy  to  her. 

"Don't  you  want  to  as  well?"  he  asked,  almost 
roughly. 

"You  know  I  do,"  she  said  very  low. 

"But  it's  no  use  my  going  to  the  boarding-house," 
he  stormed.  "The  place  is  full  of  old  women  going  in 
and  out  Besides,  I  must  think  of  you:  I  shouldn't 
like  any  one  to  have  the  right  to  say  a  word  of  course." 
He  looked  round  impatiently  at  the  trees  and  the 
straight  old  houses.  "So  many  places  and  nowhere 
for  us  to  go !  I  want  to  talk  seriously  to  you  and  yet 
I  can't  until  I've  had  one  good  kiss.  I'm — I'm  hunger- 
ing for  it,  Barbara." 

His  voice  caught  harshly  on  that  and  Barbara's 
whole  soul  melted  at  the  sound.  Poor  boy!  Poor 
boy! 

She,  too,  looked  round  a*  the  straight  houses  where 
so  many  lovers  must  have  sheltered;  then  her  quick 
wits,  quickened  by  his  longing  and  her  own,  made  her 
<:ry  out  suddenly — • 

"Why.  Julian  ?     I  know  what  we  can  do.    We  can 


CHELTENHAM  255 

ask  to  see  over  an  empty  house.  It  says  in  that  one, 
'Keys  next  door.' ' 

He  hesitated;  then  his  desire  to  be  alone  with  her 
where  no  one  could  spy  on  them  swamped  every  other 
consideration. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  almost  reluctantly. 

So  they  went  up  some  tall  steps  and  an  old  servant 
with  a  sour  face  at  once  gave  them  the  keys.  She 
was  embittered  by  answering  the  door  for  people  who 
had  looked  over  the  house  and  gone  away  without  tak- 
ing it,  and  she  turned  a  lack-lustre,  contemptuous  eye 
on  this  new  pair  of  fools  who  would  doubtless — de- 
spite their  folly — be  able  to  observe  the  extreme  incon- 
venience of  the  kitchen  and  basements. 

"Mind  you  lock  all  up  well  after  you,  and  bring  back 
the  keys,"  she  said,  shutting  the  door  on  them. 

They  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  of  the  house  and  en- 
tered the  front  room  where  the  shutters  were  partly 
open.  The  walls  were  panelled  half-way  up  and  the 
scratched  flooring  was  polished;  a  mustiness  of  dis- 
creet festival  hung  about  the  place,  from  times  when 
the  men  and  women  dwelling  here  lived  ordered,  nar- 
row lives,  which  had  yet  a  fitness  and  fineness  of  their 
own  which  we  are  too  near  to  see  rightly  at  pres- 
ent. .  .  . 

But  now  that  the  time  had  come,  both  Barbara  and 
her  lover  hesitated  a  moment,  speaking  of  the  room 
and  glancing  away  from  each  other.  Then  Barbara 
suddenly  felt  herself  in  his  arms,  his  mouth  hard 
pressed  on  hers,  his  heart  throbbing  so  that  she  could 
feel  it  through  his  thick  clothes.  The  room  seemed  to 
swim  round  her  and  he  felt  her  sag  on  his  arm.  Her 


256 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

eyes  closed.  But  he  had  to  satisfy  his  hunger  for 
her  lips.  At  last  he  let  her  go. 

"Oh,  Julian!"  she  murmured  faintly.  "Your  bad 
arm.  You'll  have  hurt  your  bad  arm." 

And  this  simple  thought  for  him  in  the  midst  of  her 
own  passion,  which  he  had  felt  responsive  in  her, 
brought  him  back  to  himself.  He  pushed  his  hair  from 
his  forehead  and  picked  up  the  cap  which  had  fallen 
on  the  floor.  Then  he  went  across  and  opened  the 
window. 

"Come  and  sit  on  the  window-seat,"  he  said,  speak- 
ing rather  jerkily  and  breathlessly  still.  "You'll  feel 
the  sun  there." 

"Yes."  She  let  her  hand  fall  on  her  lap  and  the 
sunshine  bathed  her  in  mellow  autumn  radiance.  Out- 
side the  last  crimson  trailers  of  the  Virginia  Creeper 
hung  across  the  upper  panes  of  the  window  and  cast 
delicate  shadows  through  the  soiled  glass  01  to  her 
face.  She  seemed  to  him  most  exquisitely  lovely  and 
appealing  as  she  sat  there,  tired  by  his  passion.  He 
wanted  to  protect  her  from  that  as  from  everything 
else  during  the  moment  he  stood  there,  looking  down 
at  her.  Then  Barbara  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled. 

"Don't  you  wish  we  could  have  this  house  for  our 
own,  Julian?" 

"Yes."  He  paused.  "No,  I  don't,  I  mean."  He 
pulled  himself  together  and  smiled  back  at  her,  master 
of  his  emotions  once  more.  "We're  going  to  have  a 
much  nicer  house  than  this,  Barbara,  out  in  Canada." 

To  his  surprise,  as  he  said  that,  all  the  glow  and 
softness  died  out  of  her  face :  the  little  lines  round  the 
mouth  showed  more  plainly  than  he  had  ever  seen  them 


CHELTENHAM  257 

before — those  tiny  lines  he  loved  because  they  were  a 
part  of  her. 

She  waited  a  moment  and  then  said,  looking  out  of 
the  window — 

"You  like  Canada  ?     You  want  to  go  back  ?" 

"You  bet  I  do,"  he  said.  "I've  a  life  out  there. 
Here,  I  should  have  no  chance  at  all.  I  never  was  any 
good  at  clerical  work  and  I  don't  understand  English 
farming.  Besides,  my  whole  property  is  being  made 
yet,  and  I  could  never  realise  at  present  to  bring  in 
anything  worth  while.  I  couldn't  possibly  find  enough 
capital  to  start  a  second  farm  in  England,  even  if  I 
wanted  to."  He  paused,  glancing  sharply  at  her. 
"You  don't  funk  going  out  with  me?" 

"Why!  Don't  you  remember  you  said  at  the  Pic- 
ture Palace  that  first  time  we  were  alone,  that  I  was 
cut  out  for  a  colonist's  wife?"  she  said.  Then  she 
added  in  a  low  tone  and  with  a  wistfulness  he  could  not 
understand:  "No,  Julian;  I'm  not  afraid  of  a  life  out 
there  with  you." 

"But  your  people,  I  fear,  won't  like  it.  What  do 
they  say?" 

She  looked  down,  twisting  her  fingers. 

"They  don't  say  anything.     I've  not  told  them." 

"Not  told  them!  You've  said  nothing  about  my 
getting  my  discharge  and  going  back  to  Canada?" 

"No."  She  waited  a  moment,  wondering  what  was 
going  to  happen  next;  then  instinct  came  to  her  aid 
and  she  rose  and  slipped  her  hand  through  his  arm, 
pressing  herself  against  him.  "I  wanted  to  get  off 
without  any  fuss  and  discussion — I  wanted  so  to  come 
to  you,  dear." 

And  the  tide  of  his  passion  swept  over  him  again; 


258  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

he  could  not  keep  his  mind  clear  enough  to  reason  out 
what  her  words  meant — he  only  knew  she  was  im- 
measurable dear  and  that  he  could  feel  her  sweetness 
pressing  against  him.  Gently,  after  he  had  kissed  her 
— as  if  she  were  something  breakable  and  precious — 
he  put  her  down  on  the  broad  window-sill  again  and 
sat  beside  her  with  her  hand  in  his.  The  trail  of  crim- 
son Virginia  Creeper  making  shadows  on  her  pale  face 
for  some  reason  caused  him  to  picture  her  walking 
in  his  apple  orchard  in  spring  with  the  wind  in  her 
hair  leaning  towards  her  with  her  hand  tight 
clasped,  he  told  her  of  the  life  out  there  that  they 
were  going  to  live  together.  He'd  worked  for  it  and 
earned  it  by  ceaseless  toil  and  it  was  a  part  of  him; 
she  realised  that  as  she  watched  his  face  and  listened 
to  his  voice. 

"Thank  God  I've  got  it  to  fall  back  on  now,"  he 
said.  "The  doctors  think  my  arm  may  get  nearly  right 
again  in  the  dry  Canadian  air,  but  I  have  reached  a 
point  where  I  can  afford  to  hire  for  the  actual  manual 
labour;  or  I  may  take  the  man  who  is  looking  after 
it  now  into  partnership.  I've  not  settled  yet  what  I 
shall  do  exactly."  He  paused,  smiling  with  his  bright, 
dark  eyes  into  hers.  "There's  one  thing  certain,  and 
it's  the  one  that  matters  most-:  you'll  be  there !" 

Barbara  released  her  hand  and  sat  plucking  her 
gown  and  looking  down. 

"You  would  hate  to  be  in  an  office  in  England,  of 
course." 

"I  should  loathe  it.  Besides,  I'm  no  good  at  office 
work,  and  I  could  never  get  to  be  anything  more  than 
a  clerk  or  a  shopman  here.  My  job's  out  there  and 
I'm  glad  of  it.  I  like  the  freedom  of  the  life." 


CHELTENHAM  259 

"Yes.  I  can't  picture  you  chained  to  a  desk  or  a 
counter,"  said  Barbara  still  in  the  same  odd,  inward 
tone.  "But  you'd  do  it  for  me,  wouldn't  you?  If  I 
had  to  stay  in  England  ?" 

"I  would  if  I  couldn't  have  you  in  any  other  way," 
he  answered.  "I'd  live  anywhere  and  do  anything 
for  that" 

She  saw  his  vivid,  seamed  face  approaching  hers 
once  more  and  she  pushed  him  back  with  both  hands, 
gazing  at  him  with  a  sort  of  desperate  earnestness 
which  he  did  not  understand  or  even  notice  through 
the  haze  of  his  own  emotion. 

"Julian,"  she  said,  "you'd  chafe  your  heart  out  here 
in  any  job  you  could  get.  You'd  settle  down  at  first, 

perhaps,  while  it  was  all  new;  but  afterwards " 

She  stopped  short,  thinking  on  into  the  future  for  him, 
as  women  do  for  their  children;  and  she  saw  him 
dulled,  fretted,  narrowed,  embittered,  or  forced  into 
some  evilly  fantastic  escape  from  bonds  that  irked  him 
unbearably :  but  she  never  once  doubted  that  he  would 
still  love  her  through  it  all.  If  he  stayed  in  England 
he  would  be  torn  to  agony  all  his  days  by  his  love  for 
her  dragging  one  way  and  his  love  of  freedom  and 
adventure  dragging  the  other.  He  had  gained  char- 
acter from  his  experience  which  would  make  him  stick 
to  his  job,  she  believed;  but  he  would  not  be  happy 
even  with  her  love. 

She  stared  out  of  the  open  window,  turning  away 
from  him,  vaguely  conscious — with  that  fine  hearing 
of  tiers — of  the  noises  of  Cheltenham,  which  were 
quite  different  from  those  of  Flodmouth ;  lighter,  more 
tripping  and  ordered,  mingled  always  with  the  delicate 
sound  of  branches  moving  a  little  in  the  quiet  air. 


260  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

And  beneath  that  her  soul  listened  again  to  the  same 
under-sound  which  she  had  been  gradually  hearing 
more  and  more  clearly  during  the  past  year  in  Flod- 
mouth — which  had,  in  all  those  months  when  her 
hands  and  not  her  mind  were  occupied,  become  a  sort 
of  obsession,  colouring  everything,  coming  into  every- 
thing, while  she  herself  remained  unaware  of  any  ab- 
normal state  of  mind. 

But  these  feelings  all  passed  through  her  being  in 
the  brief  time  between  her  saying  "afterwards  .  .  ." 
and  his  replying  gravely — 

"Do  you  want  me  to  stop  in  England,  Barbara?" 

She  looked  straight  at  him,  exaltation  and  yet  clear 
truth  in  her  eyes. 

"No,  Julian,  I  would  rather  you  went  back." 

"Because  I  didn't  enlist  with  the  Canadians,  you 
know.  I  came  over  on  my  own  and  joined  up  here, 
so  I  am  not  obliged  to  go  over  to  Canada  to  get  my 
-discharge.  I  can  simply  stay  on  here,  if  I  wish." 

"But  you  don't,  Julian."  She  tried  to  smile  and 
speak  lightly,  touching  his  hand;  for  she  had  learned 
her  power  to  distract  him  by  touch  from  seeing  too 
clearly  what  was  in  her  thoughts. 

So  he  took  her  in  his  arms  again,  murmuring  close 
to  her  soft  cheek:  "You  don't  mind  this,  dear?  Do 
you?" 

"Mind !"  She  clung  to  him.  "What  makes  you  say 
that?" 

"I  don't  know.  You  looked  so  pale  sitting  in  that 
window.  As  if  I'd  tired  you  out,  somehow." 

"No,  no."  She  pressed  her  head  on  his  shoulder 
and  let  her  body  relax,  saying  in  that  strange,  inward 
voice:  "Nd!  This  is  rest." 


CHELTENHAM 261 

"Barbara,  to  think  of  the  time  when  I  shall  have  you 
always :  coming  in  from  work  and  you  there ;  and 
no  saying  good-night.  My  own  little  love.  You  do 
love  me,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  Julian,  I  do  love  you!"  she  whispered.  "I've 
lain  awake  and  thought  of  you  and  wanted  so  to  kiss 
the  scar  on  your  face :  I  don't  know  why  I  always 
thought  of  that." 

"My  little  girl;  my  sweetheart!"  he  murmured  in 
a  transport  of  tenderness.  "We  must  be  married 
soon,  whether  I  can  take  you  over  with  me  at  present 
or  not.  But  if  I  once  get  you  how  can  I  leave  you  ?" 

She  lay  in  his  arms  a  few  moments  without  speak- 
ing, then  she  got  up  and  took  her  hat  from  the  mantel- 
piece— 

"We  must  go  now." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,  or  we  shall  have  that  sour-faced 
old  party  from  next  door  coming  to  see  if  we  have 
stolen  the  gas-fittings."  He  looked  round  at  the  win- 
dows and  the  panelled  walls.  "Tell  you  what,  Bar- 
bara, if  I  were  a  millionaire,  I  should  buy  this  house 
just  as  it  stands  for  us  to  stay  in  when  we  come  to 
visit  England.  Then  when  we  got  to  be  old  folks  our- 
selves, and  the  young  ones  could  run  our  place  in 
Canada,  we  might  come  here  for  long  spells  at  a  time.. 
Seems  to  me  Cheltenham  wouldn't  be  a  bad  place  to  sit 
down  in  after  the  day's  work  was  over.  There's  some- 
thing about  these  old  houses  that  would  go  well  with, 
a  happy  old  age." 

"Oh!  Don't!"  Barbara  turned  round  sharply  with 
her  hands  still  to  her  hat;  then  she  began  to  cry  bit- 
terly, but  stemmed  her  tears  almost  as  soon  as  they  be- 
gan. 


262  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Why:  what's  the  matter,  dear?"  he  said,  hurrying 
across  to  her.  "Has  the  pin  pricked  you?" 

She  walked  to  the  door  and  turned  then,  facing  him 
with  a  smile.  "Silly!  As  if  I  should  cry  because  a 
pin  pricked  me !" 

"Then  what  was  it  ?" 

She  preceded  him  through  the  hall,  head  bent — 

"I — I  didn't  like  to  hear  you  talk  about  getting 
old,"  she  faltered. 

"Was  that  all  ?  Little  goose,  we  shall  have  to  grow 
old  some  day ;  and  I  am  thinking  of  all  the  lovely  years 
in  between."  He  paused  just  inside  the  door  and 
kissed  her  once  again:  then  he  turned  the  key  in  the 
lock  and  they  emerged  from  the  shadows  into  the 
bright  afternoon. 

"Good-bye,  old  house,"  he  said.  "We  won't  for- 
get you;  will  we,  Barbara?" 

Barbara  shook  her  head  and  said  nothing,  biting  her 
lip. 

But  when  he  came  down  the  steps  next  door  after 
delivering  up  the  keys,  she  was  quite  gay  and  smiling. 

"Come!"  she  said.  "Let  us  go  and  have  tea  some- 
where." 

"Right-o !  I'm  a  true  Canadian  for  liking  a  cup  of 
tea,  but  I  like  it  good  and  strong  too,  with  plenty  of 
°ugar  in  it." 

"You  always  drink  it  with  your  dinner  out  there, 
don't  you?" 

And  so  Barbara  led  him  on  to  speak  of  every  trifling 
detail  of  his  life  in  Canada,  hanging  on  his  words  as 
he  described  the  cooking  stoves,  and  meals,  and  long 
drives  in  wintry  weather,  and  parties  at  Christmas 
time,  as  if  it  were  some  wonderful  tale  of  Ulysses. 


CHELTENHAM  263 

Every  now  and  then  she  made  him  repeat  some  trivial 
thing  over  again,  as  if  to  fix  it  in  her  mind,  until  even 
he  turned  upon  her  at  last  with  a  laugh  and  a  jest: 
"I  can't  remember  any  more,  old  girl,  you'll  have  to 
come  and  see  the  rest  for  yourself."  But  he  was 
touched  by  her  interest  in  his  daily  life  to  a  more  real 
sense  of  the  bond  btween  them  than  he  had  ever  felt 
before. 

They  had  their  tea  in  an  old-fashioned  confection- 
er's, where  the  very  walls  seemed  permeated  by  memo- 
ries of  long-past  banquets  provided  under  that  roof  for 
Nabobs  who  came  home,  after  a  twenty  or  thirty  years' 
uninterrupted  residence  out  in  India,  to  enjoy  them- 
selves on  what  was  left  of  their  lives  after  serving 
their  country  on  chutney  and  brandy  pawnee — but 
serving  it  well,  all  the  same.  There  was  an  old  waiter 
left  who  seemed  to  belong  to  the  past,  but  the  rest  of 
the  attendants  were  girls  with  crimped  hair  and  pow- 
dered faces  who  belonged  to  the  day  of  Barbara  and 
her  lover. 

It  was  once  more  growing  dark  as  they  came  out 
after  tea,  just  as  it  had  been  the  day  before.  On  their 
way  through  the  shop  they  passed  by  jars  of  potted 
lampreys  from  the  Severn  which  were  delicious  enough 
and  rich  enough  to  make  the  legend  of  a  greedy  king's 
end  a  thing  that  might  happen  to  anybody,  and  which 
linked  up  the  present  with  the  past  more  acutely  even 
than  the  waiter  and  the  broad  walks  and  the  dignified 
houses — like  a  little,  shrill  note  in  this  symphony  of 
bygone  times  which  reached  the  ear  almost  with  a  sense 
of  touch,  it  was  so  clear.  The  idea  of  permanence 
which  made  the  town  a  restful  place  to  grow  old  in  en- 
veloped Brooke  like  a  tangible  atmosphere  as  he  walked 


264  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

by  Barbara's  side  past  the  shops  with  their  gay  fruit 
and  lustrous  fish  and  all  the  coloured  variety  of  their 
wares.  In  the  whole  of  his  adventurous  life  he  had 
never  before  felt  so  lulled  into  a  quiet  realisation  of 
things  happy  now,  and  going  to  last  His  joy  was  so 
deep  that  it  became  quiet,  just  sparkled  over  at  the 
top  by  little  remarks  he  made  to  Barbara  for  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  her  voice  and  seeing  her  face  turn 
to  him. 

When  they  reached  the  same  jeweller's  that  they 
had  noticed  the  afternoon  before,  he  said  to  her — 

"We'll  go  in  now  to  buy  that  ring,  Barbara.  I 
won't  be  put  off  any  longer."  And  he  marched  in, 
leaving  her  to  follow. 

The  elderly  shopman  spread  trays  of  different  jewels 
for  her  to  choose  from,  glancing  with  sympathy  from 
the  wounded  soldier  to  the  girl.  So  here  it  was  again ; 
war — suffering — loss — and  yet  love  holding  strong 
through  it  all,  to  remain  when  all  else  was  gone.  This 
was  what  his  heart  said,  under  his  dry  and  starched 
exterior,  though  he  was  not  aware  of  his  heart  speak- 
ing at  all.  He  only  made  up  his  mind  not  to  bring  out 
any  very  expensive  rings  "for  fear  the  poor  chap 
should  be  run  in  for  more  than  he  could  afford."  But 
Barbara  so  insisted  on  having  a  very  cheap  one  with- 
out stones  that  he  was  after  all  disappointed  a  little, 
for  he  was  a  tradesman  and  human.  However,  he 
could  not  feel  really  sorry,  because  of  that  voice  in  his 
heart,  and  he  murmured  as  he  handed  the  receipted 
bill :  "Chaste  design;  and  it  has  the  advantage  of  being 
suitable  to  wear  at  all  times  and  seasons  like  a  wed- 
ding-ring." 

Brooke  beamed  at  the  little  grey  man  who  thus  so 


CHELTENHAM 265 

splendidly  consoled  him  for  his  disappointment;  and 
as  they  came  out  of  the  shop  he  took  Barbara's  arm 
and  whispered — 

"So  that  was  it?  You  wanted  one  you  could  do 
chores  in,  you  darling!  I  just  love  you  for  that  more 
than  ever  before,  Barbara."  He  had  stopped  short  in 
the  midst  of  all  the  people  and  a  fresh-faced,  fiery  old 
gentleman  in  spats  quite  snorted  as  he  bumped  into 
the  couple;  then  saw  Brooke's  arm  and  said  quite 
humbly :  "I  beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  stopping  for,  Julian?"  said 
Barbara. 

"The  broken  wedding-ring  that  wants  joining  to- 
gether and  making  to  fit  you  properly.  You've  got  it 
in  your  purse,  haven't  you?" 

"Oh,  don't  let  us  bother  with  it  now,"  said  Barbara, 
hurrying  on. 

"But  it  would  be  so  easily  done  here,"  protested 
Brooke,  obliged  to  follow  her. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Not  now."  Then  she  caught  sight  of  a  chocolate 
shop  and  seized  on  a  distraction.  "Oh,  do  go  in  and 
get  me  some  chocs!  I've  not  had  any  for  such  an 
age." 

"Well  .  .  ."  He  allowed  the  matter  to  pass  for 
the  moment  and  came  forth  in  two  minutes  with  a 
large  packet  in  his  hand.  "Now  for  the  jeweller's!" 

"No,  dear,"  pleaded  Barbara.  "Let  us  go  and  sit 
on  one  of  those  seats  opposite  while  we  eat  the  sweets." 

"We  can  do  that  afterwards."  He  hesitated;  but 
Barbara  was  already  making  her  way  across  the  road. 

It  was  very  pleasant  under  the  high  trees,  though 
there  was  a  slight  mist  and  no  stars.  They  sat  on 


266  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

until  Brooke  shivered  in  spite  of  his  overcoat,  and  then 
Barbara  jumped  up  with  a  self-reproachful — 

"Oh,  Julian!  I  forgot  you  are  an  invalid.  How 
selfish  I  am !  You  are  getting  cold  here." 

"Nonsense!  I'm  perfectly  all  right.  Do  stay.  It 
is  all  your  fancy,"  he  pleaded. 

But  she  was  not  to  be  persuaded,  and  he  had  at  last 
to  walk  with  her  past  the  narrow  garden  to  the  board- 
ing-house. 

"To-morrow  at  the  same  time,  then?"  he  said,  as 
they  parted. 

"Yes."  She  paused  on  the  bottom  step.  "You 
know  to-morrow's  the  last  day?" 

"Know!  I  should  think  I  do.  Well,  one  blessing, 
this  sort  of  thing  will  soon  be  ended." 

"Good-night!"  She  was  on  the  top  of  the  steps 
now. 

"Good-night!"  he  answered,  but  in  spite  of  feeling 
cold  he  remained  standing  there  a  long  time  after- 
wards; he  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  tear  himself  away 
from  the  house  that  sheltered  her. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  RETURN 

THEY  sat  under  one  of  the  great  beeches  which 
had  grown  to  such  a  beautiful  and  even  stature 
in  that  kindly  air,  and  were  so  different  from  the  storm- 
bent  trees  of  Scarcliffe. 

"You're  very  quiet  to-day,  Barbara,"  he  said. 
"You  look  as  if  you  had  slept  badly." 

"Do  I?  Oh,  I  did  rather."  But  she  did  not  turn 
to  him,  and  continued  to  stare  before  her  with  dark 
encircled  eyes. 

He  moved  a  little  closer  and  took  her  hand  that  lay 
on  her  knee  under  her  muff. 

"Cheer  up,  old  girl!  We've  had  a  glorious  time 
whatever  happens  next." 

She  turned  to  him  now  but  there  was  still  no  smile 
on  her  face,  and  she  said  with  a  brooding  gravity — 

"Then  I  was  right  to  come?" 

"Of  course  you  were.  What  do  you  mean,  Bar- 
bara ?"  he  said,  beginning  to  be  a  little  puzzled  and  un- 
easy. 

"I  thought  it  all  out :  the  hours  I  lay  awake  at  home, 

thinking "     She  paused.     "And  now  I  have  only 

made  it  so  much  harder." 

"I  don't  understand.  What  are  you  talking  about?" 
he  said  sharply. 

267 


268  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

She  stared  before  her  again.  She  ielt  she  could  not 
tell  him  yet,  and  yet  she  must.  .  .  .  When  that  soldier 
had  crossed  the  road  she  would  tell  him.  No,  when 
that  woman  had  turned  the  corner.  Now! 

She  gave  a  little  gasp,  catching  her  breath :  "I  came 
to  Cheltenham  to  tell  you  I  couldn't  marry  you.  I 
thought  I  might  hurt  you  less  than  by  writing — and 
I've  only  hurt  you  more." 

"Barbara !  You're  a  bit  over-wrought  and  hysteri- 
cal, dear.  You  don't  mean  it.  You  can't  mean  it," 
he  said.  "Good  God!  The  way  you  looked  when  I 
met  you  on  the  Promenade  under  these  trees — and  yes- 
terday in  that  empty  house.  You're  in  love  with  me. 
Whatever  you  say,  I  know  you  love  me  as  I  love  you. 
I  could  feel  it  when  I  held  you  in  my  arms.  You  can't 
make  me  believe  you  don't  love  me." 

"I'm  not  trying  to,  Julian,"  she  said  sadly,  and  her 
very  quietness  only  alarmed  him  the  more. 

"But  if  you  do  care  for  me — what  in  the  world  is  all 
this  about?"  he  exclaimed.  "You  can't  mean  to  say 
you  'let  me  kiss  you  as  I  did,  all  the  time  knowing  you 
were  going  to  turn  me  down?  The  thing's  in- 
credible!" 

"I  did  very  wrong."  She  waited,  biting  her  lip. 
"I — I  couldn't  help  it,  Julian.  I  couldn't  send  you 
away  from  me  all  at  once  as  I  meant  to.  It  all  seemed 
so  sunny  and  lovely  here  that  first  afternoon,  and  you 
with  me."  A  tear  rolled  down  her  cheek  and  she  felt 
a  salt  taste  on  her  lips,  but  she  did  not  wipe  it  away. 
"I  couldn't  bear  to  spoil  it  all.  I  felt  as  if  I  must 
have  a  bit  of  good  time  if  I  died  for  it  afterwards.  It 

would  have  to  last "  She  broke  off,  fighting  down 

her  emotion. 


THE  RETURN  269 

He  looked  at  her  and  took  her  hand  again. 

"Poor  little  girl!  Dear  little  girl!"  he  murmured, 
moving  close  to  her  on  the  seat  and  disregarding  the 
supercilious  glance  of  a  passer-by.  "What  maggot 
has  she  got  in  her  brain  now?  Come,  out  with  it!" 

She  shook  her  head  and  said  with  a  sort  of  dull 
obstinacy,  clinging  to  one  phrase  like  a  shipwrecked 
voyager  in  a  stormy  sea :  "I  can't  marry  you.  I  came 
because  I  thought  it  would  be  cowardly  to  write.  I 
thought  it  would  hurt  you  less  if  I  told  you  by  word  of 
mouth.  I'm  sorry  I  did  now." 

"But  this  is  stark  nonsense,"  he  protested.  "You 
admit  you  love  me  and  yet  you  go  on  like  this.  You 
won't  even  give  me  your  reason  for  not  wanting  to 
marry  me.  I  have  a  right  to  know  that,  at  least. 
Can't  you  realise  that  you  are  behaving  towards  me 
with  the  grossest  unfairness?" 

"Yes,  Julian;  I  know  all  that,"  she  said  in  a  low, 
hopeless  voice  that  disarmed  him  again. 

"Come,  Barbara  dearest,  tell  me !"  he  urged,  looking 
into  her  face.  She  was  conscious  of  his  ardent  gaze 
burning  through  his  drooped  eyelids  and  her  whole 
being  yearned  towards  him,  but  in  proportion  as  it 
hurt  she  felt  justified  in  what  she  was  doing;  the  very 
agony  made  her  feel  she  must  be  right. 

"Don't  urge  me  any  more,  Julian,"  she  said  faintly, 
white  to  the  lips.  "I  can't  endure  any  more." 

And  it  was  so  wrung  out  of  her,  like  the  cry  of  a 
martyr  on  the  rack,  that  Brooke  could  not  persist;  he 
was  bound  to  pity  her  despite  his  sense  of  thwarted  be- 
wilderment. 

They  sat  a  moment  or  two  in  silence,  yellow  leaves 
like  flakes  of  gold  floating  down  upon  them  through 


270  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

the  misty,  sunshiny  air — and  in  the  silence  a  sudden 
recollection  of  their  odd  dream  came  to  Brooke.  He 
pushed  the  thought  back,  knowing  that  a  coincidence 
had  made  it  come  true — and  yet  it  had  come  true. 

Irrationally,  he  was  all  at  once  weighed  down  by 
Barbara's  hopelessness;  the  blank  sense  of  utter  loss  he 
had  felt  in  the  dream  returned  upon  him  now.  He 
wondered  if  she  remembered,  but  she  did  not  at  that 
time,  because  all  her  powers  were  concentrated  in 
bearing  an  agony  which  she  knew  a  word  would  free 
her  from  at  once. 

"I'd  better  be  going  in  now;  I  have  to  pack,"  she 
said,  rising  rather  unsteadily. 

He  rose,  too,  and  put  his  hand  through  her  arm. 

"Your  packing  won't  take  five  minutes,"  he  said. 
"I  am  determined  to  talk  this  out  with  you,  Barbara. 
You  won't  get  away  from  me  like  this." 

She  sat  down  again,  seeming  glad  to  be  spared  the 
effort  of  standing. 

"Very  well.    You  have  a  right  to  that,  Julian." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  maddened  by  the  resistance 
of  a  thing  so  frail  that  he  could  not  bend ;  then  he  flung 
himself  upon  the  seat  with  his  right  arm  about  her, 
pressing  her  to  him.  An  elderly  gentleman  scowled 
round,  outraged,  but  he  did  not  care  if  all  the  world 
looked  on  and  frowned. 

"Barbara!"  he  whispered  fiercely.  "I'm  going  to 
marry  you  before  you  leave  this  place.  Do  you  hear  ? 
I'm  going  to  marry  you  before  you  go  home.  You 
can  stay  on  a  few  days  and  I'll  get  a  special  license 
and  we'll  be  married.  Then  we'll  talk — we'll  talk  all 
you  like.  But  I'm  going  to  make  sure  of  you  first." 

As  he  felt  her  body  relax  and  press  against  his  arm, 


THE  RETURN  271 

and  heard  a  little  sigh  come  from  her  parted  lips,  he 
thought  he  had  triumphed  and  rejoiced  already  like  a 
bridegroom  over  his  bride.  Then  Barbara's  attitude 
stiffened  and  she  drew  herself  away  from  him,  filling 
him  with  a  wild  anger  that  was  beyond  her  concep- 
tion; his  very  manhood  seemed  to  be  frustrated,  out- 
raged. With  an  incoherent  sound  between  a  word 
and  a  cry  he  jumped  up  from  her  side  and  stood  trem- 
bling, white  with  rage,  the  scar  showing  livid  on  his 
drawn  face. 

"Then  you  really  have  been  fooling  me  all  the 
time?  You  wanted  my  love-making  but  you  didn't 

want  me?  And  I  thought  you  too  good "  He 

choked  on  the  words.  "So  that  was  the  reason  you 
wouldn't  have  the  wedding-ring  mended :  I  see  now. 
You  knew  you  wouldn't  want  it.  Go  home,  then! 
Go  home  and  marry  a  man  that's  better  off  than  me 
if  you  can  find  one.  I  don't  care!  I've  done  with 
you!" 

He  turned  round  and  tore  off  down  the  wide  road 
towards  the  open  country.  At  first  her  eyes  were 
closed  because  the  old  houses  and  the  yellowing  trees 
all  swam  round  her,  but  when  she  opened  them  he 
was  still  visible  a  long  way  off,  walking  with  his  light 
alert  step  in  the  pale  sunshine.  She  saw  him  going 
so  out  of  her  life  and  she  felt  she  must  die  then  of 
life's  intolerable  emptiness;  but  after  a  while  she  got 
up  and  went  back  to  the  boarding-house. 

All  next  day,  while  she  was  travelling,  the  country 
through  which  she  passed  seemed  quite  unreal.  She 
was  conscious  of  an  acute  pain  in  her  head  and  a  sense 
of  unutterable  fatigue,  but  behind  or  beneath  the 


272  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

agony,  shining  through  it,  was  a  sort  of  exaltation 
which  alone  kept  her  from  going  under.  All  through 
the  intolerable  journey  her  thoughts  were  dulled  and 
indefinite,  save  for  the  stabs  of  agony  which  came 
every  time  that  Brook's  last  words  repeated  them- 
selves in  her  mind.  The  recollection  of  their  love- 
making  among  the  golden  leaves  and  the  sunshine  was 
spoilt  by  the  sharp  pain  which  must  now  always  go 
with  it.  She  endured  that  last  pain  of  love  which 
comes  when  love's  memories  are  spoilt. 

As  she  sat  in  a  middle  seat,  crushed  against  a  fat 
woman  on  the  one  side  and  a  restless  child  on  the  other, 
she  experienced  the  blank  despair  of  youth  which  sees 
no  opening  in  the  darkness.  She  did,  indeed,  envy  the 
wife  whom  Brooke  had  married  and  buried,  for  that 
girl  had  only  died  and  he  could  still  think  well  of  her. 

At  last  she  alighted,  cramped  and  weary,  at  the 
arched  station  which  had  as  yet  been  the  bourne  of  all 
her  journeyings;  and  the  Flodmouth  noises  again  ac- 
companied her  thoughts  unnoticed  as  they  had  always 
done,  accentuating  by  their  very  familiarity  the  strange 
misery  in  which  she  came  home.  Now  she  knew  that 
when  she  went  to  Cheltenham  she  had  been  compara- 
tively speaking,  happy;  there  was  still  a  hope  at  the 
bottom  of  all  her  resolves  that  something  would  hap- 
pen to  prevent  the  sacrifice.  This  hope  lives  unde- 
tected in  the  heart  of  every  human  being  who  offers 
up  something  almost  beyond  their  power,  and  Barbara 
had  been  inspired  by  it  during  those  first  two  days  at 
Cheltenham. 

Now  the  incredible  had  happened  after  all,  and  she 
was  stunned  for  the  time  being  by  the  magnitude  of 
her  Loss — the  time  was  yet  to  come  when  the  recur- 


THE  RETURN  273 

ring  stabs  of  pain  would  be  a  constant  agony.  Her 
look  was  such  that  Mrs.  Simpson's  heart  failed  when 
she  saw  her  daughter:  fears  sprang  bristling  to  the 
surface.  .  .  .  What  had  that  man  done  to  her  girl? 
But  she  said  quietly  enough:  "You  look  tired,  Bar- 
bara. Come  and  have  some  tea  at  once !" 

"Father  in  yet?"  said  Barbara,  forcing  herself  to 
respond. 

"No;  he  will  be  in  directly." 

Then  Elsie  came  into  the  room  with  the  tea-pot  and 
they  sat  down  by  the  table.  To  Barbara  the  very 
sameness  of  it  all  after  what  she  had  passed  through 
made  it  seem  strange. 

"I  see  you  have  been  taking  some  of  the  pictures 
down,"  she  said. 

"Yes;  haven't  you  heard?  You  do  look  a  worm, 
Barbara,  Cheltenham  hasn't  done  you  much  good.  I 
thought  Mother  had  written  to  tell  you,"  said  Elsie 
excitedly. 

Barbara  turned  to  her  mother  with  a  listlessness 
that  Mrs.  Simpson  noted  with  a  pang  of  apprehension. 

"What  is  it,  Mother?" 

"We  are  leaving  this  house,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson. 
"I  did  write,  but  the  letter  must  have  missed  you." 

"Leaving?  At  once?"  said  Barbara,  stirred  out  of 
her  self-engrossment. 

"Yes;  we  have  an  offer  to  sub-let  it  if  we  can  be  out 
in  a  fortnight.  Some  man  on  one  of  the  Government 
jobs  wants  to  take  it.  Your  Father  thinks  as  I  do, 
that  we  ought  to  close  with  the  offer  and  go  into  a 
much  smaller  house  at  once,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson, 
"Don't  you  agree?" 


274  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Oh  yes.  Less  coals  and  everything  will  be  needed 
in  a  little  house,"  said  Barbara. 

"Goodness!"  cried  Elsie.  "You  talk  about  leaving 
this  dear  old  house  where  we  all  grew  up  as  if  i^ 
were  buying  a  new  dish-cloth!  Aren't  you  sorry  to 
go?" 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Barbara  duly.  "Have  you 
heard  of  another  house  that  will  do,  Mother?" 

There  is  one  of  those  little  new  houses  in  Thornley 
Street  to  let;  sitting-room,  kitchen,  three  bedrooms 
and  bathroom.  All  we  need." 

"Oh  yes."  Barbara  roused  herself.  "I  thought 
them  very  nice  little  houses." 

"I  rather  wish  there  wasn't  a  piano  on  one  side  and 
a  baby  on  the  other  and  about  ten  little  boys  always 
playing  and  yelling  outside,"  said  Elsie.  "But  that's 
a  detail." 

"Oh,  we  shall  get  used  to  it;  and  you  were  a  crying 
baby  yourself  once,"  smiled  Mrs.  Simpson. 

Then  Mr.  Simpson's  key  sounded  in  the  lock  and 
Barbara  ran  out  to  greet  her  father. 

"Well!  Well!"  he  said.  "What  news  from  the 
seat  of  war,  eh?  Wounded  warrior v  going  on  all 
right?" 

Barbara  felt  all  the  blood  rushing  to  her  face,  then 
it  receded,  leaving  her  very  pale. 

"He  seems  well  in  himself,  but  his  arm  remains 
tiresome.  They  are  going  to  give  him  his  discharge," 
she  said. 

"That's  bad  luck — about  the  arm,  I  mean,"  said  Mr. 
Simpson  gravely.  "What  will  he  do  for  a  living?" 

"Oh,  he  is  going  back  to  his  fruit  farm  in  Canada," 
said  Barbara,  sitting  down  to  the  table  again. 


THE  RETURN  275 

"Soon?"  said  Mrs.  Simpson  quickly. 

"Yes,  I  expect  so." 

Elsie  laughed. 

"Expect  so!  As  if  she  didn't  know.  I  dare  say 
she  has  fixed  up  to  go  with  him." 

"I  don't  fancy  they  let  women  travel  just  at  pres- 
ent," said  Barbara.  Then  she  hesitated,  fingering  her 
teaspoon.  "But  that  won't  matter  to  me  one  way  or 
another.  I'm  not  going  at  all." 

Mrs.  Simpson  glanced  up  anxiously. 

"Not  going  at  all?     What  do  you  mean,  Barbara?" 

"I  am  not "  She  paused  a  moment  and  mois- 
tened her  lips.  "There  is  nothing  between  Julian 
Brooke  and  me  any  longer,  Mother." 

"What!"  shrilled  Elsie.  "You've  broken  it  off? 
Well,  I  was  never  much  for  him,  but  I  do  call  that 
mean,  just  when  he  has  crocked  up  and  knows  his  arm 
won't  get  right  any  more." 

"They  say  it  may  come  all  right  in  the  dry  air  of 
Canada,"  replied  Barbara  in  a  low  voice. 

Mr.  Simpson  stared  at  her  in  innocent  amazement. 

"You  can't  have  chucked  him  for  that,  Barbara?" 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Barbara,  roused  to  faint  in- 
dignation. "Nobody  in  their  senses  could  think  such 
a  thing." 

"Well,"  said  Elsie,  "I  know  what  /  should  think  if 
I  were  Brooke." 

"He  never  would "  began  Barbara  angrily ;  then 

it  swept  over  her  all  in  a  minute  that  he  had  so  thought 
of  her  ...  he  had  thought  that  of  her.  .  .  .  Again 
she  saw  him  walking  away  from  her  quickly  through 
the  pale  sunshine,  awkwardly  clad  in  the  blue  uniform 
and  rough  khaki  overcoat,  and  yet  the  thin  alertness 


276  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

of  his  figure  showing  plainly  even  at  a  distance.  "I 
can't  help  what  he  thinks,"  she  added,  pressing  her 
finger  on  her  lip  to  stop  its  trembling. 

"Well,  I  can't  say  I'm  sorry  so  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned," said  Mr.  Simpson  cheerfully.  "I  suppose 
girls  do  get  these  infatuations  for  soldiers,  and  I  can 
understand  it  right  enough.  Sort  of  'Give  the  boys 
a  good  time'  feeling;  knowing  how  plucky  they  are. 
Dessay  I  should  have  been  the  same  myself  if  I'd  been 
a  girl." 

"And  I  hope  you  wouldn't!"  cried  Elsie  indignantly. 
"I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Father;  as  if  that  were  all  our 
brave  soldiers  were  good  for!  And  I  call  it  most 
awfully  mean  of  Barbara  if  she  has  turned  down 
Brooke  just  because  of  his  bad  arm,  after  going  on 
with  him  all  this  time." 

"Elsie!"  said  Mrs.  Simpson  with  gentle  vehemence; 
"you  must  not  talk  like  that.  You  know  nothing  at 
all  about  it.  I  am  perfectly  certain  that  Barbara  has 
some  other  and  good  reason  for  acting  as  she  has 
done." 

Mr.  Simpson  flushed  purple  and  blurted  out — 

"Surely  the  chap  behaved  properly  ?  He — he  didn't 
try  to  take  any  advantage  of  your  being  there  by  your- 
self ?  I  said  you  never  ought  to  have  gone." 

"Father!  How  can  you  say  such  a  wicked  thing?" 
cried  Barbara,  starting  up;  "you — who  know  Julian!" 
And  she  wept,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands.  "He's 
so  good,"  she  sobbed.  "He's  as  honourable  as  you 
are,  Dad.  I — I  can't  bear  you  to  say  such  things." 

Mr.  Simpson  came  nearer  and  patted  her  shoulder. 

"*There,  there,  my  girl!"  he  said  uncomfortably. 


THE  RETURN  277 

"I  never  meant  to  be  unkind;  only  you  must  have  had 
some  reason,  you  know." 

"It  had  nothing  to  do  with  Julian;  nothing  at  all. 
I  can't  bear  for  you  to  think  ill  of  him.  I'm  the  one 
who  did  it  all.  He  was  in  a  terrible  way  when  I  told 
him." 

"Well,  well;  a  girl  can't  always  know  her  own 
mind,"  consoled  Mr.  Simpson.  "Don't  you  fash  your- 
self too  much,  Barbara.  I've  no  doubt  he'll  find  an- 
other girl  before  long  and  cheer  up  all  right." 

"Funny  thing  about  Barbara,"  said  Elsie,  "she 
thinks  she  wants  them  until  she  gets  them  and  then 
she  doesn't  want  them  any  more;  but  when  it's  a 
wounded  soldier,  I  think  she  ought  to  settle  up  with 
herself  before  it  comes  to  that  pass." 

"Oh!"  Barbara  suddenly  began  to  sob  hysterically, 
worn  out  with  sleeplessness,  fatigue,  and  emotion. 
"Oh,  I  did  it  for  the  best,  and  now  you  all  turn  round 
on  me.  I  never  thought  you  would  treat  me  like  this." 
So  saying  she  pushed  back  her  chair  and  hurried  away 
from  the  room,  calling  over  her  shoulder:  "Nobody 
need  come  up.  I  don't  want  anybody.  I  only  want 
to  be  left  alone !" 

The  three  left  behind  stared  blankly  at  each  other. 
Elsie  was  the  first  to  speak,  glancing  at  her  Mother's 
stunned  face.  "Don't  look  like  that,  Mother,"  she 
said.  "Barbara  will  get  over  it.  Oh,  dear!  I  hate 
all  this  fuss  about  young  men.  I  wish  to  goodness 
she  would  get  married  and  have  done  with  it." 

Mrs.  Simpson  forced  herself  to  smile  and  said  al- 
most easily — 

"I  dare  say  it  is  only  a  lovers'  quarrel.  Or  she  may 
find  that  she  cannot  care  for  him  after  all.  You  see 


278  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

they  really  knew  very  little  indeed  of  one  another." 

Mr.  Simpson  frowned  uneasily. 

"We  ought  not  to  have  let  her  go  to  Cheltenham 
alone  to  meet  the  fellow.  It  was  a  wrong  thing  to  do. 
I  think  you  ought  to  pop  upstairs,  Harriet,  and  see 
what  she  has  to  say  about  it." 

But  Mrs.  Simpson  loved  Barbara  enough  to  leave 
her  alone,  though  every  fibre  of  her  mother's  heart  was 
being  drawn  with  a  sort  of  agony  towards  the  bedroom 
upstairs.  She  even  managed  to  distract  Mr.  Simp- 
son's attention  to  the  new  house  and  the  discussion  of 
those  larger  articles  of  furniture  which  they  would 
be  obliged  to  part  with,  until  at  last  it  was  time  for 
Elsie  to  go  to  bed. 

Elsie  went  into  the  bedroom  and  saw  Barbara  still 
dressed  upon  the  bed  with  her  face  towards  the  wall. 
She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  hesitating  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said  softly — 

"Asleep,  Barbara?" 

"No.     My  head's  bad." 

"Shall  I  get  you  something  for  it?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

Silence  again,  while  Elsie  went  about  her  undress- 
ing ;  then  Barbara  felt  a  shawl  gently  laid  over  her  and 
moved  impatiently — 

"Don't  worry  me,  Elsie.  It's  very  good  of  you; 
but  I  only  want  to  be  quiet." 

All  the  same  the  dull  absorption  of  her  grief  was 
disturbed  and  she  soon  rose  and  began  to  undress  also. 
The  Flodmouth  noises  came  in  through  the  slightly 
open  window.  .  .  .  The  sharp  O-oh!  of  the  engine  at 
the  end  of  the  street  went  through  her  head,  and  that 


THE  RETURN 279 

further  roused  her  deadened  sensibilities.  She  began 
to  see  that  she  must  say  something  to  the  pale,  half- 
scared  girl  who  was  tremblingly  unpacking  her  suit 
case. 

"Don't  bother,  Elsie.  I've  got  out  all  I  want  for 
to-night,"  she  said  in  a  kinder  tone. 

"All  right.  I'll  just  hang  up  your  new  coat  and 
skirt."  Elsie  walked  to  the  cupboard  and  then  turned 
round:  "Barbara,  why  on  earth  did  you  spend  all 
that  money  on  this  if  you  were  going  to  throw  him 
over  ?" 

Barbara  said  nothing.  After  a  while  Elsie  ex- 
claimed, peering  through  her  cloud  of  dark  hair:  "I've 
found  out!  You  wanted  him  to  remember  you  look- 
ing nice  all  his  life."  She  paused,  her  dark  eyes  won- 
derfully shining  and  dilated  as  her  quick,  intuitive 
thoughts  flew  here  and  there,  catching  at  slight  threads 
and  binding  them  together.  "I — I  know  .  .  .  you're 
in  love  with  him  still — you  don't  want  to  give  him  up. 
Then  why "  As  she  stared  at  Barbara  with  pierc- 
ing eyes  in  her  thin  face  and  chin  thrust  out  and  wild 
hair  about  her,  she  was  like  a  witch ;  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred years  earlier  she  might  have  been  taken  for  one 
with  her  temperament.  "Why !"  she  cried,  "it's  us  .  .  . 
you're  sticking  to  us  ...  you  think  you  oughtn't  to 
leave  us !" 

"Don't  talk  nonsense !"  said  Barbara,  turning  away. 

"That's  what  you  always  say,"  answered  Elsie,  still 
gazing  tensely  upon  her  sister.  "But  I'm  often  right. 
I'm  right  this  time.  And  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  do 
it.  Father  and  Mother  and  I  don't  want  you  to  mar- 
tyr yourself  for  us :  we  shall  manage  all  right." 

Barbara,  amid  all  her  own  pre-occupation,  felt  a 


280  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

pang  of  tenderness  and  pity  as  she  saw  the  little  vibrat- 
ing, fragile  figure  drawn  up  so  gallantly  in  the  childish 
white  night-dress. 

"Elsie,  you're  not  going  to  communicate  your  ideas 
to  Father  and  Mother,  I  hope?"  she  said  quickly. 
Then,  as  her  sister  did  not  reply:  "Elsie!  You  must 
>not  do  that,  you  know." 

"Then  it  is  so!"  cried  Elsie.  "You  wouldn't  mind 
me  telling  if  it  were  not  true.  Well,  I  shall  tell  them. 
I'm  not  going  to  have  you  spoil  your  life  and  Brooke's 
for  nothing  like  a  silly  girl  in  a  story-book.  I  hate  all 
these  misunderstandings  that  needn't  happen  at  all  if 
people  had  any  common  sense." 

"But,  Elsie  .  .  ." 

"It's  no  good  saying  anything,  Barbara.  I'm  just 
not  going  to  have  you  offering  yourself  up  like  a  sort  of 
burnt-sacrifice  to  look  after  us.  I  shall  tell  Mother, 
and  so  there!" 

Barbara  sat  down,  pressing  her  hand  to  her  aching 
head.  There  was  no  help  for  it;  the  thing  must  be 
talked  out  now. 

"Look  here,  Elsie,"  she  said.  "You  remember  how 
seedy  Mother  was  when  we  got  home  from  Scarcliffe  ?" 

"Yes;  but  it  was  not  your  fault  she  couldn't  get  a 
charwoman  while  we  were  away." 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there.  The  thing  is  that 
I  saw  the  doctor  one  day  and  he  told  me  Mother  might 
live  one  year  and  she  might  live  twenty it — it  de- 
pended upon  us." 

"Oh !"  Elsie  gave  a  little  cry ;  then  she  said  in  a  low 
tone:  "I  see  how  hard  that  makes  it.  If  you  had 
been  marrying  any  one  in  England  it  would  not  have 
mattered  so  much.  Can't  Brooke  stay  in  England?" 


THE  RETURN  281 

"He  could;  but  as  a  broken  man  with  all  he  has 
worked  for  out  there  sacrificed.  I  daren't  let  him  run 
the  risk,  with  his  temperament.  Fancy  if  I  had  to 
watch  him  getting  all  spoilt  and  different  through  me. 
That  would  be  worse  than  giving  him  up,  Elsie." 

"Yes."  Elsie  stood  brooding,  a  strangely  old  look 
on  her  face.  "Yes;  you've  got  to  take  it- all  in  a 
piece."  Then  she  hid  her  face  and  began  to  cry 
quietly :  "Poor  old  Barbie !  Poor  old  Barbie !" 

"Don't,  Elsie !  I  can't  bear  it,"  said  Barbara  sharp- 
ly, and  Elsie  choked  and  swallowed  and  managed  to 
control  herself. 

"I  promise  not  to  tell,  if  that's  any  comfort  to  you," 
she  said.  "On  my  honour,  I  promise  not  to." 

"Thank  you,  Elsie :  and  now  we'll  never  talk  of  this 
subject  any  more,"  said  Barbara  wearily.  "Try  and 
get  to  sleep.  You  must  be  tired." 

Elsie  turned  the  light  out  and  said,  with  a  pitiful 
struggle  to  do  what  Barbara  would  like:  "It's  a  fine 
night,  Barbie;  the  stars  are  shining.  There's  a  cab 
just  driven  away  from  Mrs.  Bellerby's  house :  I  think 
she  has  come  home  from  seeing  Blanche.  Isn't  it  sad 
about  Hugh  Elliott  having  fallen?" 

"Poor  Blanche!     Good-night,   Elsie!" 

Then  there  was  quiet  in  the  room  but  for  the  sounds 
coming  in  through  the  open  window.  Barbara  heard 
them  now,  beating  through  her  aching  head;  and 
beneath  them  her  soul  listened  to  that  other  chorus 
deepening  and  gathering  strength  with  every  moment 
of  the  day  and  night  .  .  .  millions  chanting  the  Song 
of  Sacrifice. 

What  did  her  lot  of  sorrow  and  sacrifice  matter  in 
the  face  of  all  that?  She  felt  it  was  nothing.  She 


282  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

was  carried  along  by  that  mighty  chorus  to  which  her 
soul  listened.  Though  she  lay  still  on  her  bed,  she  was 
following  the  great  company  of  those  who  have  so 
gloried  in  the  beauty  of  sacrifice  that  they  saw  in  it 
not  a  means  but  an  end.  All  these  months  her  re- 
sponsive ardent  mind  had  been  tending  towards  that 
condition,  and  now  she  experienced  the  result. 

In  the  absorption  of  her  own  feelings,  however,  she 
failed  to  weigh  justly  the  wrong  she  was  doing  Brooke, 
because  in  her  present  state  of  mind  she  felt  that  a 
sacrifice  which  hurt  so  terribly  must  be  the  right  one. 
She  knew  that  it  would  have  hurt  her  comparatively 
little  to  turn  her  back  on  those  who  have  cared  for 
her  all  her  life  and  to  go  out  into  a  strange  country 
with  a  man  she  had  known  a  few  months.  And 
so  she  argued  that  her  difficult  course  must  be  the  best. 

But  every  time  she  closed  her  eyes  she  could  see  the 
wide  road  at  Cheltenham,  with  Brooke's  alert  figure 
disappearing  into  a  hazy,  sunshiny  distance ;  and  there 
was  always  a  touch  of  loneliness  and  f  orlornness  about 
the  vanishing  figure. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

CHANGE 

BARBARA  came  down  next  morning  to  begin  a 
fortnight  of  such  physical  hard  work  as  left  no 
time  for  thinking  of  her  grief.  It  hung  like  a  heavy 
cloud  over  all  she  said  and  did ;  but  beneath  that  cloud 
she  had  to  wrestle  with  the  immediate  difficulties  of  a 
removal  from  a  comfortably  sized  house  to  a  little 
one.  Wardrobes  and  sideboards  bought  in  those  safe 
and  spacious  days  of  the  Simpsons'  wedding  and  in- 
tended to  last  through  a  prosperous  life-time  could  not 
be  bestowed  in  rooms  suited  to  furniture  of  the  "Where 
Maggie  got  her  home  for  ten  pounds"  description,  so 
a  great  deal  had  to  be  sorted  out  and  sent  to  the  sale- 
rooms. 

Two  days  after  Barbara's  return  from  Cheltenham, 
Mrs.  Simpson  broke  through  the  defensive  and  aggres- 
sive cheerfulness  with  which  her  daugher  had  sur- 
rounded herself.  They  were  sorting  out  a  drawer  in 
the  sideboard  which  had  contained  cookery  recipes 
ever  since  Mrs.  Simpson  began  to  put  them  there  as 
a  young  bride,  and  it  was  some  waft  of  summary  air 
from  that  first  year  of  her  marriage  and  which  a  re- 
cipe for  Strawberry  Trifle  with  Macaroons  caused  to 
blow  across  her  memory,  that  made  her  force  a  way 
timidly  into  her  daughter's  confidence. 

283 


284  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Barbara — you  don't  regret?  You're  not  fretting 
after  that  man?" 

"Do  I  look  as  if  I  were  fretting?"  said  Barbara, 
continuing  to  sort  recipes. 

"No."  Mrs.  Simpson  paused.  "But  you  wouldn't, 
you  know."  She  paused  again.  "Why  did  you  go  to 
Cheltenham  if  you  did  not  care  for  him?  I  must  have 
some  explanation  of  that,  dear.  You  owe  it  to  both 
your  Father  and  me." 

"Very  well."  Barbara  threw  a  bundle  of  papers 
into  the  basket.  "I  went  because  I  thought  it  seemed 
cowardly  to  break  off  my  engagement  by  letter.  At 
least,  that  was  the  reason  I  thought  I  had,"  she  added 
in  a  low  voice,  anxious  to  speak  the  exact  truth  to  her 
mother. 

"You  wanted  to  see  him?  That  was  the  real  fact 
of  the  matter,"  pursued  Mrs.  Simpson. 

"Partly.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  suppose  so." 

"You  are  a  queer  girl,  Barbara.  You  were  very 
fond  of  Frank  Garret  until  he  proposed,  and  then  you 
had  no  further  use  for  him.  Now  it  seems  to  be  the 
same  with  Brooke.  You  must  be  careful  that  you 
don't  throw  too  many  chances  of  happiness  away. 
There  comes  a  time  when  a  girl  does  not  find  any 
more." 

"I  don't  want  any  more,  Mother;  not  of  that  kind," 
said  Barbara  rising.  "It's  time  I  put  the  pan  on  for 
dinner."  She  went  across  the  room  and  paused  at 
the  door.  "I'd  rather  not  talk  about  this  if  you  don't 
mind.  After  all,  what  goes  on  between  a  girl  and  a 
man  is  their  business;  neither  side  has  any  right  to 
give  it  away.  It's — it's  about  the  one  thing  that  you 


CHANGE 285 

ought  to  keep  to  yourself.  I'm  not  going  to  say  any 
more  about  it,  Mother." 

Mrs.  Simpson  bent  her  head  over  her  recipes  and 
said  nothing;  but  something  in  her  pose  both  angered 
and  touched  Barbara  to  the  heart.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's silence;  the  Du  Caines  went  past — he  war- 
worn and  thin,  but  cheery,  and  she  in  a  new  cheap 
hat,  radiant  with  happiness.  They  were  living  in  that 
short  ten-days'  leave,  with  death  behind  and  death 
waiting,  a  year's  joy  pressed  together  and  sharpened  to 
something — not  abnormal — but  most  clearly,  finely  ad- 
venturous. Barbara  was  stirred  to  a  high  emotion  as 
she  saw  them  go  swinging  by  ...  they  were  not  just 
the  Du  Caines  with  him  on  leave,  but  the  whole  glory 
and  horror  and  sacrifice  of  the  great  crusade  for  free- 
dom. She  turned  to  her  mother  with  eyes  a-shine  and 
face  palely  smiling — 

"Goodness,  don't  let's  worry  any  more  about  me 
and  my  petty  little  love-affairs !"  And  her  tone  trium- 
phantly added:  "What  do  they  matter?" 

But  in  her  secret  heart  she  was  unconsciously  aware 
that  youthful  love  must  continue  to  matter  while  the 
world  lasted.  However  it  might  seem  to  be  swamped 
by  the  dreadful  turmoil,  it  would  spring  up  again 
unaltered  like  corn  on  a  deserted  battle-field:  it  was 
equally  of  the  substance  of  human  life. 

This,  however,  was  what  she  felt;  what  she  thought 
just  then  was  quite  different.  And  she  went  out  into 
the  kitchen  with  a  belief  that  she  did,  indeed,  consider 
her  "bit  of  happiness"  an  affair  of  no  great  moment. 
She  had  been  pressed  too  close — poor  Barbara! — to 
the  windows  that  death  had  opened  upon  the  life  of  the 
world  to  come.  Middle  age  may  look  so  close  and 


286 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

bear  it,  but  ardent  sensitive  youth  is  often  impelled 
either  to  snatch  with  desperate  fingers  every  pleasure 
obtainable  because  life  is  so  short,  or  to  become  like 
Barbara. 

A  heavy  fog  hung  over  Flodmouth,  and  Barbara 
stood  at  the  gate  watching  a  removal  van  go  down  the 
Avenue.  It  loomed  oddly  in  the  grey  air,  gigantic,  al- 
most threatening — as  if  it  were  taking  away  into 
nothingness  a  great  deal  more  than  handsome  suites 
of  mahogany  and  rose-wood  furniture  for  sale.  Mrs. 
Bellerby  came  out  of  the  next  gate  with  a  tray  in  her 
hands. 

"I  was  just  bringing  this  in,  Barbara,"  she  said.  "I 
thought  you  might  be  in  rather  an  upset  to-day,  and 
glad  of  a  cup  of  tea  all  ready." 

"How  good  of  you,"  said  Barbara,  touched  almost 
to  hurting  point  by  this  little  kindness,  as  happens 
when  the  heart  is  very  full. 

They  went  in  together  and  sat  down  with  Mrs.  Simp- 
son and  Elsie  in  a  dismantled  room  through  which 
the  cold  winds  of  strangeness  seemed  to  be  already 
blowing — it  was  not  home  any  longer.  But  they  joked 
cheerfully  about  the  good  tea  and  the  little  hot  cakes 
that  were  not  at  all  like  war-time,  and  the  spectacle  of 
Mrs.  Bellerby — whom  they  had  laughed  at  so  often — 
chasing  her  difficult  "h's,"  was  somehow  intimately 
dear  to  them.  She  was — curled  fringe,  refinement 
and  all — a  part  of  that  life  in  the  Avenue  which  had 
been  on  the  whole  so  happy.  She  was  like  the  broken 
pump  at  the  end  of  the  village  when  you  are  saying 
good-bye. 

The  attitude  of  mind  of  the  Simpsons  penetrated 


CHANGE 287 

her  understanding  clearly  enough,  and  she  responded 
to  it  the  best  she  knew  how,  saying  quite  earnestly: 
"You  needn't  think  a  little  house  will  make  any  differ- 
ence to  your  true  friends,  Mrs.  Simpson.  I  shall 
think  nothing  of  the  walk  in  fine  weather  and  early 
in  the  afternoon.  I  am  only  sorry  you  have  a  public- 
house  at  the  corner,  but  no  doubt  it  will  come  in  use- 
ful if  you  need  brandy  in  case  of  illness."  She 
paused.  "That  reminds  me,  poor  Blanche  sent  her 
love  to  you.  A  widow — so  young — they  say  she  looks 
terribly  pathetic  in  her  weeds.  My  Dorothy  is  still 
with  her,  you  know,  and  Mrs.  Elliott  has  taken  them 
again  to  the  hotel  at  Brighton.  Blanche  could  not 
bear  the  quiet  of  the  country — it  got  on  her  nerves. 
And  a  sort  of  second  cousin  of  dear  Hugh's  is  there 
who  has  been  such  a  wonderful  comfort  to  her,  poor 
girl.  He  is  invalided  out  of  the  army  and  has  a  place 
larger  than  the  Elliotts — the  eldest  son  of  an  Earl.  It 
is  very  delightful  for  dear  Blanche  having  such  nice 
connections,  and  a  great  comfort  to  me.  Mrs.  Wilson 
seemed  to  think  a  mother  ought  to  be  the  one  to  re- 
main with  her,  but  I  perfectly  understand  her  clinging 
to  Hugh's  people;  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Bellerby,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson  very 
gently. 

And  Elsie  restrained  the  words  that  rose  to  her  lips, 
only  saying  to  herself  with  a  sort  of  moved  fury : 
"Now  it's  Mrs.  Bellerby  like  all  the  rest.  Why  is  it 
like  that?  Why  couldn't  God  make  something  in 
daughters  to  match  what  there  is  in  mothers?  I  hate 
Blanche  for  not  wanting  her  mother." 

But  Mrs.  Bellerby  rippled  on :  "Blanche  is  so  good ; 
she  writes  to  me  constantly,  and  so  does  Dorothy.  I 


^88  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

am  very  fortunate  to  have  two  such  successful  daugh- 
ters. Not  that  poor  Blanche Only,  of  course, 

she  is  young  yet.  Did  I  tell  you  that  Hugh  made  the 
most  wonderful  will?  Everything  left  absolutely;  not 
a  word  about  marrying  again.  He  was  a  noble  char- 
acter." 

Then  Elsie  spoke — she  could  hold  herself  in  no 
longer — 

"He  is"  she  cried.  "You  don't  think  he's  stopped 
being  because  he  has  died  for  his  country?  He's  as 
much  alive  now  as  you  or  me.  More;  because  he 
hasn't  to  bother  about  a  tiresome  old  body.  And  he's 
going  on  being  splendid  all  the  time.  Can't  you  feel 
that?" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Bellerby  uncomfortably. 

"Elsie,  don't  be  so  vehement,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson. 

"Poor  old  Elsie,  she  doesn't  mean  to  be  rude,  she 
only  talks  in  italics  because  she's  so  horribly  in  ear- 
nest," said  Barbara,  smiling  at  her  sister. 

"Well,  I  think  I  must  be  going,"  said  Mrs.  Bellerby. 
Then  she  added  to  round  off  her  departure:  "You 
know,  Miss  Felling  returns  to-night?  She  must  have 
been  away  some  weeks." 

"Yes.  We  shall  be  delighted  to  see  her  back,"' said 
Mrs.  Simpson. 

"Oh!  we  all  shall,"  said  Mrs.  Bellerby. 

And  they  accompanied  her  to  the  door,  Barbara 
carrying  the  tray  down  the  path  and  listening  to  a  de- 
tailed account  of  the  fur  coat  which  Mrs.  Elliott  had 
given  Blanche. 

When  Mr.  Simpson  came  home  from  business  he 
also  felt  a  cold  wind  of  strangeness  blowing  through 


CHANGE 289 

the  house  which  he  had  prepared  for  his  bride — such 
a  warm  and  safe  nest — in  the  spring-time  of  his  man- 
hood. He  did  not  give  himself  up  to  sentimental  re- 
flections of  this  sort,  and  was,  indeed,  unconscious  of 
having  them  at  all;  but  they  took  the  form  of  an  at- 
tack of  indigestion  and  extreme  irritability  about  the 
drainage  system  of  the  new  house.  It  seems  queer) 
that  such  beautiful  jand  deep  feelings  as  a  man's  love 
of  the  home  he  made  for  the  wife  of  his  youth  should 
express  themselves  in  such  a  way,  but  they  did;  and 
his  strictures  fell  as  a  last  straw  on  the  shoulders  of 
his  jaded  family.  It  was  Elsie,  as  usual,  who  felt 
bound  to  become  articulate. 

"Really,  Father,  we  can't  help  having  to  move  into  a 
little  house.  It  is  just  as  horrid  for  us  as  for  you." 

But  there  she  spoke  falsely;  because  Mr.  Simpson 
suffered,  in  spite  of  reason,  from  the  middle-class 
man's  feeling  that  his  females  ought  to  have  been 
guarded  by  him  against  such  discomforts  and  hard- 
ships. He  was  enveloped  that  evening  in  a  fog  of 
failure  through  which  he  was  unable  to  see  clearly. 
After  a  while  the  evening  post  came,  and  he  went 
heavily  to  take  in  the  letters. 

"One  from  your  Aunt  Horace,"  he  said,  opening 
the  envelope  without  any  interest.  "What  does  she 
want?  She's  got  all  her  money  safe  enough.  She's 
all  right."  He  read  listlessly,  than  his  expression 
changed  and  he  looked  excited :  "I  say,  Harriet ! 
Whatever  do  you  think?  Wonders  '11  never  cease. 
She — she  actually  offers  to  send  Elsie  to  a  good  school 
in  Scotland  where  special  attention  is  given  to  the  girls' 
health,  and  afterwards  to  stand  expenses  at  College.'* 

Mrs.  Simpson  sat  down. 


ago  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Goodness!  You  take  my  breath  away,  Sam.  What 
can  have  induced  her  to  do  it?" 

"Seems  she  has  come  across  somebody  from  Flod- 
mouth  at  her  boarding-house  in  Bath  and  has  heard 
we  are  obliged  to  leave  this  house.  I  think  she  really 
was  fond  of  Horace  in  her  way,  though  she  was  spoilt 
with  having  a  large  independent  income  of  her  own 
and  always  doing  just  as  she  liked.  Anyway,  there  it 
is."  He  turned  chuckling  to  Elsie:  "That's  a  bit  of 
all  right,  eh?  I  shall  have  to  buy  you  a  pair  of  blue 
stockings  I  saw  hanging  in  a  shop-window  to-day, 
eh?"  And  he  rubbed  his  hands  and  chuckled  again, 
so  glad  to  have  something  to  feel  jolly  about  once 
more  that  the  rest  of  his  troubles  seemed  for  the  mo- 
ment not  to  matter. 

"I  say,  Elsie — how  glorious!"  said  Barbara,  flushed 
and  smiling.  "Mother,  aren't  you  delighted?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  was  all  Mrs.  Simpson  could  say,  so 
ardently  was  she  thanking  God:  though  at  the  same 
time  she  saw  a  vista  of  years  during  which  her  girl 
must  go  farther  and  farther  away  from  her;  and  yet 
she  continued  to  give  thanks  because  it  was  the  ful- 
filment of  Elsie's  dream. 

Elsie  herself  sat  quite  still,  twisting  her  thin  fingers; 
then  she  burst  out:  "Oh,  Mother!  Oh,  Father!  I'll 
never  hate  anybody  again." 

They  laughed,  relieved  to  have  some  excuse  for  loos- 
ing the  tension. 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  asked  Barbara. 

"Well,  to  think  how  I  have  detested  old  Aunt 
Horace,  and  then  she  comes  down  like  this  and  gives 
me  the  one  thing  I  want  most  in  life.  Oh!  fancy  me 
at  a  good  school  where  I  can  learn  everything  and  get 


^ CHANGE 291 

strong  at  the  same  time;  and  then  the  glorious  fun 
I'll  have  at  College.  I  feel  as  if  it  can't  be  true.  It's 
too  good  to  be  true!" 

"Nonsense;  nothing  is,  when  you  are  sixteen," 
smiled  Mrs.  Simpson.  She  turned  to  her  husband: 
"How  pleased  Horace  would  have  been.  You  and  he 
got  on  so  well  together  at  the  office,  though  she  never 
cared  much  about  us.  I  expect  she  misses  him  now 
more  than  she  did  at  first,  and  has  made  this  offer  for 
his  sake." 

"Perhaps  her  conscience  troubles  her  a  bit  too,"  said 
Mr.  Simpson.  "It  was  her  withdrawing  her  capital 
from  the  business  that  just  finished  me  off,  and  I  told 
her  so."  He  paused.  "But  I  might  have  gone,  any- 
way. I  didn't  bear  her  any  malice." 

Mr.  Simpson,  speaking  thus,  spoke  for  a  generation 
of  such  just  and  tolerant  Englishmen — but  Elsie 
sounded  another  note.  "I  know  you  didn't  But  you 
want  to  bear  malice  sometimes,  Father.  I  call  it 
washy  not  to ;  until  the  person  does  something  to  make 
you  feel  different." 

Mr.  Simpson  chuckled  indulgently:  "She's  a  real 
firebrand,  our  Elsie  is;  she'll  be  setting  the  old  Flod 
on  fire  one  of  these  days,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

Barbara  sat  quietly  among  them,  seeing  the  long, 
monotonous  years  of  a  narrow  life  stretch  out  plainly 
in  front  of  her.  Her  future  was  settled  now  that 
Elsie  was  going;  and  a  stillness  came  down  upon  her 
troubled  spirit  like  the  stillness  before  an  altar.  This 
moment  was  a  logical  sequence  of  that  other  moment 
three  years  ago  when  she  heard  the  Flodmouth  news- 
boys crying,  as  they  did  then,  the  death  of  her  Uncle 
Horace.  And  with  the  loss  of  every  Flodmouth  man. 


292  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

she  knew,  or  knew  of,  who  had  fallen  since,  the  call  to 
sacrifice  unwittingly  grew  clearer  and  clearer.  Now, 
when  the  door-bell  rang  and  she  had  to  speak  to 
some  one  at  the  door,  it  was  as  if  she  really  rose  from 
her  knees  before  an  altar  of  the  spirit,  having  found 
peace. 

Mr.  Binny's  housekeeper  stood  on  the  step,  long- 
faced  and  stolid. 

"Mr.  Binny's  compliments,  and  he  would  be  obliged 
if  Mr.  Simpson  could  step  across  for  a  few  minutes  on 
a  matter  of  business."  And  she  retired  at  once  with- 
out waiting  for  an  answer. 

"Father!"  called  Barbara  from  the  passage.  "Mr. 
Binny  wants  to  see  you  on  business." 

"Oh!  I  wonder  if  he's  going  to  take  Dad  into 
partnership,"  said  Elsie,  having  swung  round  to  the 
point  where  only  good  seemed  probable.  "I  shouldn't 
wonder  a  bit  if  that  is  it." 

"Rubbish !"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  taking  his  cap  from 
the  rack. 

He  walked  across  the  road  and  up  the  little  path  to 
Mr.  Binny's  house,  where  the  door  opened  at  once  by 
no  visible  agency.  It  closed,  and  Mr.  Binny  stood 
with  Mr.  Simpson  in  the  dimly  lighted  passage.  There 
was  an  atmosphere  of  restrained  emotion  about  Mr. 
Binny  which  any  woman  would  have  felt  at  once,  but 
Mr.  Simpson  was  masculinely  impervious  to  it  as  he 
put  down  his  cap  on  the  hall  table. 

"Well,  what  is  it,  Binny?  Torn  up  your  sugar-card 
by  accident  and  want  me  to  save  you  from  being 
dragged  in  chains  before  the  Lord  Mayor;  eh?" 

Mr.   Binny  frowned.     "Simpson,"  he  said  rather 


CHANGE  293 

severely,  "will  you  please  walk  into  the  front  room?" 
He  shut  the  door,  and  in  the  full  light  it  could  be  seen 
that  he  was  even  more  excited  than  his  voice  indicated ; 
his  forehead  was  mottled  in  red  patches  and  he  was 
without  a  tie.  Five  of  these  ornaments  of  attire,  how- 
ever, lay  on  the  table  beside  a  basket  of  brussels  sprouts 
and  a  bundle  of  leeks.  He  grasped  his  mottled  fore-- 
head with  a  hand  so  scrupulously  washed  after  gar- 
dening operations  that  the  very  skin  seemed  to  be  worn 
thin,  and  said  desperately:  "You'll  excuse  me,  Simp- 
son, for  sending  in  to  you  when  you  are  no  doubt  en- 
gaged in  packing  up,  but  I  have  looked  at  these  ties 
until  the  colours  all  run  together.  I  am  unable  to 
exercise  a  calm  judgment." 

Mr.  Simpson  stared — naturally.  It  seemed  very 
odd  that  Mr.  Binny  should  have  sent  a  formal  message 
by  the  housekeeper  in  order  to  consult  him  about  ties. 
Still,  he  was  a  good-natured  man  and  ready  to  do  his 
best,  so  he  stood  by  his  friend's  side  and  examined  the 
five  neutral-tinted  pieces  of  silk  with  attention. 

"Blest  if  I  can  see  any  difference  by  this  light,"  he 
said  at  last.  Then  the  oddness  of  it  all  again  over- 
whelmed him  and  he  cocked  up  his  eye  anxiously  at 
his  long,  lank  friend :  surely  the  pressure  of  work  and 

war  wasn't He  broke  off,  even  in  his  thoughts; 

and  concluded:  "What  are  you  driving  at,  Binny? 
What  the  dickens  does  it  matter?" 

"Everything  matters  in — in  affairs  of  this  sort," 
said  Mr.  Binny,  rubbing  his  chin  nervously.  "A  deli- 
cate female  taste  is  so  sensitive  to  these  trifles." 

Then  Mr.  Simpson  began  to  see  daylight.  He 
looked  from  the  ties  to  the  brussels  sprouts,  and  from 
the  brussels  sprouts  to  the  leeks,  with  a  countenance 


294  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

growing  more  and  more  illumined.     But  he  was  still 
far  from  realising  the  seriousness  of  the  situation. 

"Shut  your  eyes  and  take  the  first  tie  that  comes,"  he 
said.  "You'll  be  just  as  welcome  to  Miss  Felling  in 
any  tie — so  long  as  you  take  the  leeks  with  you.  Ho ! 
Ho!"  And  he  chuckled  in  what  Mr.  Binny,  despite 
old  friendship,  felt  to  be  a  very  vulgar  and  irritating 
manner. 

"This  is  serious,  Simpson,"  he  said;  then  after  a 
pause  he  added  with  an  effort:  "Have  you  seen  her 
since  she  came  back?" 

"Who?     Miss  Felling?     No,"  said  Mr.  Simpson. 

Mr.  Binny  moved  nearer,  though  the  room  was  so 
small  and  the  door  shut  fast,  and  he  dropped  his  voice : 
"She  looks  beautiful,  Simpson!"  Then  the  ingrained 
truthfulness  of  a  lifetime  forced  him  to  spoil  the  effect 
by  adding:  "At  least,  as  near  beautiful  as  makes  no 
matter." 

"What!"  said  poor  Mr.  Simpson,  again  beginning 
to  have  grave  fears  of  his  friend's  mental  balance. 
"Oh,  you're  joking,  Binny!" 

"Do  I  look  as  if  I  were  joking?"  said  Mr.  Binny, 
with  such  unconscious  pathos  that  Mr.  Simpson  averted 
his  eyes  from  his  friend's  mottled  countenance  and 
muttered  hastily — 

"No  doubt  her  long  absence  .  .  .  you  must  have 
missed  her.  ...  I  can  quite  understand — 

"No,  you  can't,"  said  Mr.  Binny  surprisingly.  "No, 
one  ever  could,  who  hadn't  actually  seen  her.  I 
chanced  to  be  at  the  station  when  she  arrived  and— 
and — I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Simpson,  though  I 
wouldn't  breathe  it  to  any  one  else  in  the  world — I  hid 
behind  a  luggage  barrow." 


CHANGE 295 

"Because  she  looked  less — less — that  is,  more  good- 
looking  than  usual?"  gasped  Mr.  Simpson  round-eyed1 

"Yes.  I  couldn't  face  her.  I  felt  I  had  been  such. 
a  poltroon  to  allow  myself  to  be  put  off  for  all  these 
years  by  a — a  nose." 

"Well!"  .  .  .  Even  in  Mr.  Simpson's  bewilderment 
he  was  conscious  that  no  over  but  good  old  Binny 
would  have  used  the  expression  poltroon,  and  he  re- 
sponded rather  feebly:  "No,  no!  I  couldn't  call  you 
that.  I  couldn't  call  you  that.  After  all,  it  is  a  great 
drawback." 

"Was!"  whooped  Mr.  Binny  excitedly.  "Was? 
It's  gone!  It  isn't  any  more." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  the  poor  lady  has  lost  her 
nose,"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  sinking  his  slight  aversion  to 
Miss  Felling's  conversation  in  his  genuine  concern  for 
an  old  neighbour.  "I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  that !  Very 
sorry  indeed !" 

"She's  lost  her  old  nose,  I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Binny. 
"It  never  will  be  small,  but  I  don't  care  about  that  at 
all.  It — it's  exactly  like  other  people's." 

Mr.  Simpson  meditated.  Miss  Felling  was  a  lonely 
woman  getting  on  in  life,  who  was  about  to  leave  her 
comfortable  house  because  she  could  not  afford  to 
live  in  it  any  longer.  He  hated  to  do  her  any  injury. 
And  yet  Binny  was  his  friend  and  fellow-Mason. 
"You — you  don't  think  she  has  been  putting  some  of 
that  thick  whitewash  stuff  on  it  out  of  a  bottle?"  he 
said  reluctantly  at  last. 

Mr.  Binny  shook  his  head. 

"I've  seen  her  with  stuff  on  it,  in  times  past.  No ! 
This  is  a  real  alteration." 


296  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"Must  be !"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  thinking  deeply.  "I 
think  I  can  give  you  a  clue :  Lillie." 

"Lillie!  Why,  she  is  married  and  doesn't  live  in 
London  any  more,  so  far  as  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Binny. 

"No,  but  she  was  employed  as  housekeeper  with  a 
woman  who  kept  one  of  those  beauty  shops,"  said  Mr. 
Simpson.  "And  she  was  very  grateful  to  Miss  Pell- 
ing.  She  would  no  doubt  urge  the  poor  lady  to  go 
that  time  when  she  fetched  little  Kitchener  away.  I'm 
•told  they  can  do  anything  nearly  at  these  places." 

"Where  did  you  hear  it,  Simpson?"  asked  Mr.  Binny 
"eagerly. 

"Well,"  Mr.  Simpson  betrayed  reluctance,  "the  fact 
is,  I  sometimes  just  glance  through  the  ladies'  papers. 
I  once  chanced  to  see  in  the  advertisements  that  these 
beauty  specialists  can  remove  little  red  veins  and 
all  sorts  of  things.  Not  that  I  ever  took  much 
notice."  .  .  . 

"Of  course  not.  Well,  I  suppose  that  must  be  it," 
said  Mr.  Binny  dolorously.  "In  any  case  I  ought  to 
have  proposed  to  her  before  she  had  it  done.  I  really 
went  to  the  station  with  that  object  in  view,  but  she 
would  never  believe  me.  I  can't  expect  her  to."  He 
sank  into  a  seat  and  held  his  head  again.  "I  shall  die 
a  lonely  old  man  with  nobody  to  look  after  me  in  my 
declining  years.  And  I  shall  deserve  it.  I  shall  de- 
serve it."  Then  he  jumped  up  again  and  began  finger- 
ing the  ties:  "I  think  this  is  the  most  refined.  I 
shouldn't  care  to  go  in  anything  flashy  on  such  an  oc- 
casion, you  know." 

"Great  Scott,  man!"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  rousing 
himself  to  hearten  the  despondent  lover.  "You  could 


CHANGE  297 

go  to  a  funeral  in  any  of  them.  But  you're  not  in- 
tending to  visit  Miss  Felling  to-night,  are  you?" 

Mr.  Binny's  look  changed.  With  a  sort  of  sly 
shame-facedness  he  tapped  Mr.  Simpson's  sleeve,  and 
said :  "I  don't  want  her  to  know  I  saw  her  at  the  sta- 
tion. Do  you  take  me?  I — I  intend  to  propose  in 
the  dark  passage.  She'll  think  I've  not  seen  her.  My 
excuse  for  unceremonious  entrance  will  be  to  put  down 
the  baskets  of  vegetables  which  I  could  not  give  into 
her  hands  both  at  once." 

"But  if  the  maid  comes  to  the  door?"  suggested  Mr. 
Simpson. 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Binny  felt  that  anger  against  Mr. 
Simpson  which  we  all  feel  when  a  friend  sees  a  fault 
in  a  well-thought-out  scheme;  then  he  remembered 
that  Miss  Felling  was  servantless. 

"Really,  Simpson,  I  should  have  thought  you  knew 
she  had  no  servant  now,"  said  Mr.  Binny,  cheering 
up;  but  immediately  he  added,  down  in  the  depths 
again:  "She  won't  have  me.  She'll  naturally  think 
I  might  have  done  it  before  or  not  at  all."  He  paused 
again  and  said  meditatively:  "I  don't  want  to  blame 
circumstances,  but  I  should  have  married  when  I  was 
twenty-five  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my  mother  and  sisters. 
Only  I  was  like  a  good  many  young  men  of  that  age, 
and  had  to  control  my  feelings.  So  I  suppose  they  got 
so  used  to  being  controlled  that  they  wouldn't  run 
away  with  me  when  I  wanted  them  to." 

Mr.  Simpson  hesitated  and  cleared  his  throat:  it 
was  not  easy  for  him  to  round  off  with  a  platitude  this 
account  of  Mr.  Binny's  sacrificed  youth.  But  the  plati- 
tude had  to  come. 

"Anyway,  you  can  always  have  the  satisfaction  of 


298  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

knowing  you  did  your  duty  by  your  mother  and  sis- 
ters," he  said. 

"I  suppose  that  is  something,"  said  Mr.  Binny  a  lit- 
tle wonderingly — almost  as  if  quite  unconsciously  he 
asked  that  question  of  civilisation  and  the  God  Who 
made  him  a  man ;  then  that  issue  faded  again  into  the 
dim  recesses  of  his  mind  and  he  returned  to  the  con- 
crete: "I  feel  convinced  she  will  refuse  me!" 

"She  won't "  Mr.  Simpson  paused — "she  won't 

refuse  you  if  she  wants  to  marry  you.  She'll  never 
cut  off  her  nose  to  spite  her  face." 

He  felt  immediately  that  it  was  an  indelicate  form 
of  speech  under  the  circumstances,  but  all  the  same  he 
had  borne  involuntary  witness  to  the  fundamental  com- 
mon sense  and  generosity  of  a  woman  he  had  never 
much  liked,  and  that  subtly  pleased  his  inborn  sense 
of  justice.  So  he  continued  in  a  more  vigorous  man- 
ner :  "Take  your  vegetables  and  be  off  with  you.  Faint 
heart  never  won  fair  lady.  Kiss  her  first  and  ask 
afterwards!" 

"Really "  began  Mr.  Binny,  but  he  subdued  his 

first  sense  of  outrage  in  consideration  of  his  friend's 
services,  and  added  in  an  anxious  tone :  "So  this  tie  is 
really  all  right?  I  think  I'll  take  the  sprouts  in  my 
right  hand  and  the  leeks  in  my  left  so  that  I  may  give 
her  the  sprouts,  if  any What  do  you  think?" 

Mr.  Simpson  did  not  say  what  he  thought ;  he  mere- 
ly took  his  cap  from  the  hall  table  and  preceded  Mr. 
Binny  to  the  gate. 

Two  hours  later  the  Simpson  family  had  retired  to 
bed,  with  the  exception  of  the  master  of  the  house, 
who  was  going  upstairs  with  a  lighted  candle,  when  a 


CHANGE  299 

heavy  knock  resounded  through  the  house.  He  has- 
tily put  down  the  candle  and  opened  the  front  door. 

"What's  that?  I'm  sure  I  thought  our  lights  were 
all  right,"  he  said,  peering  out  into  the  darkness  where 
he  expected  to  see  a  brother  Special  Constable.  Then 
he  said  in  another  tone :  "Why,  Binny !" 

"Yes;  I  felt  I  must  just  run  across  and  let  you 
know."  And  even  in  the  pitch  darkness  Mr.  Binny 
radiated  like  a  beacon.  "It's  all  right,"  he  added 
unnecessarily. 

"Splendid !  I  congratulate  you,"  said  Mr.  Simpson. 
"Won't  you  come  in?" 

"No,  thank  you.  I  promised — er — Lotty  to  look 
out  some  papers  for  her  soldiers,"  said  Mr.  Binny  with 
importance. 

Mr.  Simpson  went  upstairs  chuckling.  "I  promised 
Lotty" — just  like  that — it  did  sound  funny.  ...  "I 
promised  Lotty."  After  all,  it  sounded  rather  nice 
and  comfortable  too.  ...  As  he  reached  the  bedroom 
door  behind  which  his  wife  waited  ready  to  talk  every- 
thing over  with  him,  he  felt  very  glad  for  poor  old 
Binny. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WHAT  REMAINS 

THE  Simpsons  had  now  settled  in  their  new  home, 
where  the  large  oil-painting  of  Grandmother 
Simpson — which  they  had  not  the  heart  to  do  away 
with — took  up  most  of  the  wall-space  side  of  the  room 
opposite  the  fire.  Indeed  it  was  so  close  to  the  table 
that  Grandmother  Simpson  at  first  appeared  to  be 
looming  tremendous  over  every  meal,  demanding  what 
the  old  middle-class — a  type  which  she,  in  her  cap  and 
her  gold  chain,  and  with  her  plainly  indicated  sense  of 
dignity  and  duty,  so  obviously  represented — was  com- 
ing to?  Mr.  Simpson's  lurking  sense  of  blame  and 
responsibility  for  having  allowed  his  family  to  be 
brought  to  this,  was  increased  and  sharpened  for  a 
time  by  his  constant  vision  of  the  redoubtable  old  lady 
as  he  ate,  but  after  a  while  the  keenness  of  the  impres- 
sion wore  off,  and  he  began  to  remark  how  very  snug 
it  all  was,  which  was  literally  true.  And  they  all  four 
expressed  the  opinion,  at  various  times,  that  there  was 
something  about  the  air  of  Thornley  Street  not  ob- 
servable in  the  Avenue — which  was  equally  true,  be- 
cause of  a  tannery  near  at  hand  which  brought  across 
the  street  bitterish,  leathery  odours  when  the  wind 
was  in  the  right  direction.  The  inhabitants  of  the 
neighbourhood  further  added  that  the  smell  was 

300 


WHAT  REMAINS  301 

healthy  and  productive  of  length  of  years,  which  is  a 
thing  people  with  their  pathetic  loyalty  to  the  spot  of 
earth  that  gives  them  refuge,  will  come  to  say  of  al- 
most any  place.  But  when  Mrs.  Simpson  went  out  of 
the  front  door  one  Saturday  morning,  she  was  glad 
to  remember  this  cheering  belief  of  her  neighbours,  for 
the  smell  followed  her  down  the  street  like  something 
alive  and  particularly  unpleasant. 

After  a  ride  in  the  car  and  a  short  walk,  she  came 
to  her  old  shopping  district  which  was  familiar  to  her 
from  long  use;  and  on  entering  a  shop  to  buy  a  meat- 
pie  she  encountered  Miss  Felling.  As  the  two  ladies 
emerged  together,  and  stood  talking  on  the  pavement, 
Mrs.  Simpson  really  had  some  difficulty  in  restraining 
her  gaze  from  resting  too  particularly  on  Miss  Pell- 
ing's  face,  for  the  alteration  in  it  was  so  obvious  as  to 
be  almost  disconcerting  at  first  They  spoke  of  Mr. 
Binny,  and  of  the  approaching  marriage,  but  all  the 
time  Mrs.  Simpson  could  not  help  thinking  how  well 
Lillie  had  repaid  Miss  Felling  what  she  owed  on  the 
score  of  little  Kitchener.  It  gradually  became  appar- 
ent to  Mrs.  Simpson,  as  they  talked,  that  this  baby, 
who  came  so  oddly  and  unwantedly  into  the  Avenue, 
had  made  a  tremendous  difference  to  the  lives  of  sev- 
eral people:  and  thus  thinking  she  was  scarcely  sur- 
prised when  Miss  Felling  began  to  speak  of  the  child. 

"I'm  going  out  to  buy  a  Christmas  present  for  little 
Kitchener,  but  he's  not  going  to  be  called  that  any  more 
now,  of  course,"  she  said.  "I  have  a  letter  in  my  bag 
from  Brooke,  who  is  now  at  Scarcliffe  again,  previous 
to  getting  his  discharge.  At  least,  he  has  really  got 
it,  but  they  are  now  obliged  to  remain  three  weeks 
longer,  you  know.  He  wants  to  send  the  child  some- 


302  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

thing,  and  he  thought  it  had  better  go  through  me 
for  ,fear  Lillie's  husband  might  not  care  for  any  con- 
nection with  the  Brooke  family." 

"Quite  right,"  said  Mrs.  Simpson  confusedly,  not 
thinking  of  what  she  said;  then  she  added:  "When 
does  Brooke  leave  Scarcliffe?" 

"On  Monday,"  said  Miss  Felling. 

"And  will  he  be  coming  to  see  you?" 

"Oh  no,  he  is  going  to  Liverpool,"  said  Miss  Felling. 

"Then  we  may  never  see  him  again?"  pursued  Mrs. 
Simpson. 

"I  dare  say  not,"  answered  Miss  Felling.  "But  I 
must  be  off  now.  I  have  to  get  my  wedding-dress 
fitted — dark  grey,  you  know.  No  old  ewe  dressed 
lamb  fashion  for  me!"  She  took  a  letter  from  her 
bag.  "You  can  look  at  this  and  let  me  have  it  back 
later,  if  you  like."  And  she  was  away  after  a  passing 
car. 

Mrs.  Simpson  stood  alone  on  the  pavement  with  the 
letter  in  her  hand,  bumped  and  jostled  by  passers-by 
for  quite  a  long  time.  At  last  she  began  to  walk  slow- 
ly towards  the  station,  where  she  took  a  ticket  and 
sent  off  two  telegrams.  Then  she  got  into  the  train, 
and  sat  there  with  her  eyes*  closed  and  nervous  flushes 
coming  and  going  on  her  pale  face,  until  she  reached 
Scarcliffe. 

It  was  already  a  little  raw  and  cold  when  she  got 
out:  the  best  of  the  day  over  and  a  chill  mist  coming 
up  from  sea.  She  looked  eagerly  round  the  station 
with  her  heart  beating  in  her  throat  in  a  way  which 
made  her  feel  suffocated;  but  one  by  one  all  the  peo- 
ple, and  even  the  porters  and  station-master  filed  out, 
and  she  was  left  alone.  She  sat  down  on  a  wooden 


WHAT  REMAINS  303 

seat  damp  with  sea-mist  and  looked  with  straining 
eyes  towards  the  entrance  of  the  station.  Once  a  sol- 
dier came  in  and  she  jumped  up,  flushing  and  trem- 
bling; but  he  was  a  stranger  and  walked  straight 
into  the  office  on  some  regimental  business.  She  peered 
at  her  watch — the  minutes  were  slipping  by,  and  in 
another  hour  she  must  take  train  home  again,  or  Mr. 
Simpson  and  the  girls  would  be  in  a  terrible  state  of 
mind.  She  had  wired  to  Barbara  saying  she  was 
lunching  in  the  town,  at  the  same  time  as  she  had  sent 
the  telegram  asking  Brooke  to  meet  her  at  Scarcliffe 
Station;  but  that  meant  she  must  be  back  by  six  or 
seven  at  latest. 

The  sea  boom — boomed !  beyond  the  station ;  the  sun 
began  to  set  in  streaks  of  wild  orange,  bleak  and  deso- 
late, over  the  stunted  wind-blown  trees  which  she  could 
see  from  where  she  stood.  A  couple  of  soldiers  passed 
by  and  she  ran  after  them,  but  was  too  exhausted  to 
speak  when  she  reached  them.  They  turned  round  and 
saw  the  desperate  entreaty  of  her  look  and  her  hand 
pressed  to  her  side. 

"Take  time,  Ma,"  they  said  kindly.     "What  is  it?" 

She  drew  out  Brooke's  letter  with  fingers  that  shook 
so  they  would  scarcely  hold.  "Do  you — do  you  hap- 
pen to  know  a  man  called  Brooke  ?"  And  she  gave  his 
regiment  and  number. 

"No;  I'm  sorry.  He  doesn't  belong  to  our  lot," 
said  one  soldier. 

"They're  on  the  Flodmouth  road,  I  believe,"  said 
the  other.  "You'd  best  walk  that  way,  and  you  may 
meet  him  coming.  It's  Saturday.  He'll  very  like  be 
out  early."  They  paused,  reluctant  to  leave  her — for 
they  knew  trouble  when  they  saw  it.  "I  expect  you'll 


304  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

meet  him;  there  isn't  but  one  road  to  his  camp,"  they 
said,  and  moved  slowly  away. 

She  turned  from  them  and  plodded  on,  her  heart 
thudding  suffocatingly  against  her  ribs ;  but  she  did  not 
care.  She  would  probably  miss  the  train,  but  she  did 
not  care  about  that  now  either.  She  was  going  to  see 
Brooke.  If  she  died  for  it,  she  was  going  to  speak  to 
him. 

The  way  led  past  houses  until  she  came  to  the  be- 
ginning of  the  open  country,  which  looked  inexpres- 
sibly dreary  and  forlorn,  with  the  road  deep  in  mud 
and  the  trees  and  hedges  silent  and  dim.  Every  step 
was  an  effort,  but  she  would  not  own  herself  beaten. 
At  last  she  saw  Brooke's  unmistakable  figure  coming 
swiftly  towards  her  and  she  sat  down  on  a  stone  heap 
by  the  roadside  because  her  knees  would  not  support 
her  any  longer.  He  was  hurrying  by,  not  noticing  her 
huddled  figure  in  the  waning  light,  when  she  called 
out  to  him  and  he  stopped  short. 

"You  here,  Mrs.  Simpson?" 

With  an  immense  effort  she  pulled  herself  together 
and  went  towards  him.  Just  so,  if  she  could,  would 
she  have  risen  from  her  dying  bed  to  fight  for  her 
daughter's  happiness. 

"You  got  my  wire?"  she  said. 

"No.  They  are  sometimes  rather  slow  now.  I 
must  have  left  camp  before  it  came,"  he  said,  staring  at 
her  in  bewilderment. 

"I  asked  you  to  meet  me  at  the  station,"  she  an- 
swered; "I  wanted  to  see  you  before  you  left  this  part 
of  England.  I  thought  you  might  be  going  off  to 
Canada." 

"Yes?"  he  said. 


WHAT  REMAINS  305 

"And  I  had  to  see  you  first."  She  moistened  her 
dry  lips  with  her  tongue.  "Barbara  .  .  .  Bar- 
bara ..."  She  could  not  continue. 

A  fire  leapt  into  his  eyes. 

"Has  Barbara  sent  you?  Does  she  want  to  whistle 
me  back  again  for  a  while?  Then  I  tell  you  I'm  not 
having  any.  I've  had  enough." 

"She  doesn't  know.  I  didn't  tell  her  I  was  coming," 
said  Mrs.  Simpson.  "Only — only  she  is  so  miserable." 
And  the  poor  woman  began  to  cry  softly. 

"She  should  have  thought  of  that  before,"  said 
Brooke  grimly.  "It's  no  good,  Mrs.  Simpson.  If  you 
knew  exactly  the  way  I  have  been  treated  you  would 
not  expect  it  of  me." 

"Don't  you  know  why  she  did  it?"  said  Mrs.  Simp- 
son, wiping  her  eyes. 

"No  doubt  she  thought  it  wasn't  good  enough  when 
it  came  to  the  point,"  said  Brooke.  "She  was  like 
plenty  of  other  girls;  she  liked  the  fun  but  she  didn't 
like  paying  for  it.  Well,  she's  not  going  to  get  any 
more  fun  out  of  me." 

Mrs.  Simpson  shook  her  head,  smiling;  it  com- 
forted her  in  some  subtle  way  that  she  could  still  see 
so  much  further  into  her  girl's  thoughts  than  this  man 
whom  Barbara  loved  better  than  herself. 

"She  gave  you  up  because  of  me.  I  am  delicate,  as 
you  know,  and  we  have  moved  into  a  smaller  house 
where  we  can  keep  no  servant.  Elsie  is  not  strong 
either.  Poor  Barbara  felt  she  could  not  turn  her 
back  on  us." 

"She  might  have  seen  all  that  before.  The  circum- 
stances did  not  change  much  after  she  knew  me,"  said 
Brooke  stubbornly. 


3o6  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

"No.  She  ought  not  to  have  gone  so  far  and  then 
thrown  you  over."  Mrs.  Simpson  paused  and  added 
with  a  great  effort,  suddenly  weeping  again :  "Oh,  she 
wanted  you  so,  she  couldn't  help  it — and  then  she  gave 
you  up  for  my  sake.  How  am  I  going  to  live,  and  see 
her  going  about  every  day,  and  feel  it  is  I  who  have 
ruined  her  happiness?  I  can't  bear  it.  I  can't  bear 
it.  I  have  borne  a  lot  in  my  life,  but  I  can't  bear 
this." 

Brooke  was  touched  by  her  desperate  sincerity  in 
spite  of  himself. 

"How  do  you  know  all  this  ?"  he  said  gravely.  "Did 
Barbara  tell  you?" 

"Tell  me !"  She  looked  at  him  almost  triumphantly 
smiling  through  her  tears.  "As  if  a  mother  needed 
telling!" 

He  walked  away  from  her  down  the  road  for  a  few 
paces,  then  back  again,  a  thousand  memories  thronging 
into  his  mind.  He  remembered  the  freshness  of  Bar- 
bara's lips  against  his  own,  the  sensation  of  her  young 
body  in  his  arms — and  yet,  after  all  that,  she  had 
thrown  him  over.  No,  he  could  not  believe  in  her  any 
more. 

He  stopped  before  Mrs.  Simpson  and  said  gently 
enough :  "I'm  sorry.  But  it  is  no  use  beginning  the 
whole  thing  over  again.  I  can't  believe  after  what 
passed  between  us  that  she  would  throw  me  over  for 
such  a  reason." 

"Canada  is  so  far,"  urged  Mrs.  Simpson.  "I  am 
sure  she  thought  of  that." 

"But  I  offered  to  remain  in  England.  That  was 
no  excuse." 

"You  did?" 


WHAT  REMAINS  307 

Mrs.  Simpson  stood  quite  still,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
him,  unseeing,  her  mind  working.  At  last  she  cried : 
"So  that's  it.  Poor  Barbara!  Poor  little  Barbara!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Mean?  Why,  do  you  think  she  would  ruin  your 
life  by  making  you  remain  in  England  with  a  useless 
arm  and  no  prospects  whatever?  Not  if  she  loved 
you  as  I  think  she  does;  she'd  rather  break  her  own 
heart." 

"Why  couldn't  she  say  so  then  ?"  he  persisted. 

"And  spoil  it  all?  No;  she  was  going  to  give  you 
a  fresh  start  after  your  fighting  and  all  your  handi- 
caps in  life ;  nothing  left  to  clog  you  from  behind.  She 
doesn't  do  things  by  halves.  It  was  like  our  Barbara." 

He  stood  looking  down  the  dreary  road  which  grew 
more  and  more  indistinct;  at  last  he  looked  at  Mrs. 
Simpson. 

"You're  right,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  it  was  like  our 
Barbara.  Well,  I  can  stay  in  England  now." 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Simpson  faltered ;  she  felt  phys- 
ically unable  to  start  a  fresh  fight  on  this  issue,  but  it 
had  to  be,  if  Barbara  was  to  be  happy. 

"You  and  I,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him  with  white 
lips,  "must  just  put  our  heads  together  and  do  what 
is  best  for  her.  She  has,  perhaps,  become  a  little 
excited  and  overstrung  with  the  pressure  of  the  war. 
She  has  seen  everybody  giving  up,  until  she  is  ready  to 
sacrifice  her  happiness  and  yours  and  mine  as  well. 
But  we  mustn't  let  her.  She  is  just  suited  for  a  free 
life  out  there  with  you,  and  she  will  help  you  to  reap 
the  result  of  all  your  hard  work  before  the  war.  I 
can  be  perfectly,  perfectly  happy  thinking  of  you  two 
in  Canada  among  your  orchards  and  fruit-fields,  but 


308  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

I  should  be  miserable  to  see  you  doing  unsuitable  work 
and  living  in  a  narrow  street.  So  you  and  Barbara 
and  I  would  all  be  less  happy  than  we  need;  and  all 
for  nothing." 

He  looked  down  at  her  eager  face,  dimly  under- 
standing the  passion  of  mother-love  which  urged  her 
on;  he  even  vaguely  felt,  without  putting  his  feeling 
into  thoughts,  that  it  could  drive  her  just  so  into  a 
burning  fiery  furnace;  with  that  same  high  look  and 
nervous  smile.  And  he  acknowledged  this  in  his 
reply. 

"Very  well/'  he  said.  "I'll  do  ~?hat  you  think 
best." 

But  he  thought  it  an  odd  thing  that  instead  of  be- 
ing invigorated  by  this  announcement  as  he  expected, 
she  should  drop  suddenly  upon  the  stone  heap.  Her 
faintness  soon  passed,  however,  and  she  rose  and 
walked  slowly  with  him  in  the  direction  of  the  railway 
station. 

On  arriving  home  she  went  straight  to  bed  without 
giving  any  information  beyond  the  rather  misleading 
statement  that  she  had  been  with  Miss  Felling.  But 
next  morning  when  the  extremity  of  her  exhaustion 
had  passed  off  she  told  Mr.  Simpson  all  that  had  taken 
place.  They  were  in  bed  at  the  time,  and  Mr.  Simpson 
started  up  to  say  vehemently:  "Never  heard  of  such 
tomfoolery  in  my  life  I  You  might  have  died  on  such 
an  expedition,"  for  his  first  thought  was  for  his  wife. 
But  immediately  afterwards  he  said:  "Barbara  has 
been  a  good  girl :  she  thought  of  you  before  herself. 
We're  lucky  to  have  such  children,  whatever  other 
troubles  we  have." 


WHAT  REMAINS  309 

"We  are  indeed,  Sam."  And  she  saw  radiantly  the 
joy  their  children  had  brought  and  forgot  the  sorrow. 

"All  the  same,  I  don't  know  how  you  will  manage 
without  Barbara  in  the  house,  especially  now  Elsie  is 
going  away,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  am  getting  stronger  again  and  shall  no  doubt 
be  perfectly  well  in  a  year  or  two,"  said  Mrs.  Simp- 
son. "A  little  more  housework  will  do  me  good,  take 
my  thoughts  off." 

"Well,  perhaps  it  may,"  said  Mr.  Simpson  doubt- 
fully. "We  shall  have  to  see.  what  can  be  managed. 
The  war  may  be  over  soon  and  my  business  come  back 
again,"  he  concluded,  beginning  to  talk  himself  into 
the  optimistic  view  as  usual. 

But  Barbara  was  not  so  easily  convinced,  and  after 
the  first  burst  of  surprise  and  happiness  she  began  to 
dwell  again  on  her  mother's  health.  At  last  she  men- 
tioned something  of  what  the  doctor  had  said. 

"It  was  that  time  you  got  ill  because  I  left  you  to 
go  to  Scarcliffe,"  she  said.  "He  was  very  angry  with 
me  for  leaving  you  to  do  all  the  work." 

"Oh,  I  know  he  was;  and  that  made  him  speak  as 
he  did,"  responded  Mrs.  Simpson.  "He  got  the  silly 
idea  that  you  were  a  selfish  daughter  who  needed 
frightening  with  proper  attention;  but  he  has  assured 
me  over  and  over  again  that  I  shall  be  as  strong  as  ever 
in  a  year  or  two." 

"I  wish  I  could  ask  him,"  said  Barbara,  still  not 
satisfied. 

"Well,  you  can  when  he  comes  back  from  the  Front," 
said  Mrs.  Simpson.  "Meantime,  you'll  perhaps  con- 
tinue to  believe  your  own  Mother." 

So  in  the  end  Barbara  allowed  herself  to  believe  her 


3io  THE  SILENT  LEGION 

mother  as  she  had  always  done;  and  the  next  day 
Brooke  came  to  Flodmouth 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  he  arrived,  and  Barbara 
walked  home  with  him  from  the  station  along  the 
slippery  pavements  covered  with  the  greasy  mud  that 
seldom  quite  dries  in  Flodmouth  at  this  time  of  year. 
Sailors,  soldiers,  girls  tired  but  gay  after  their  day's 
work,  school-children  running  riotously,  newsboys 
hawking  papers — all  these  ebbed  and  flowed  round  the 
lovers,  who  remained  unconscious  of  them  and  yet 
were  aware  of  a  jolly  stir  of  life  which  made  their  own 
joy  more  secret  and  intimate.  This  was  a  fruition— 
as  with  all  lovers — of  childhood's  pretty  glee  in  "talk- 
ing secrets."  And  it  mattered  as  little  to  Barbara  and 
Julian  what  the  secret  was  so  long  as  they  alone  shared 
it.  They  were  in  that  state  of  divine  folly  when  it 
was  most  rapturously  sweet  to  mumble  to  each  other 
during  a  block  at  a  street  corner:  "Do  you  see  that 
woman's  hat,  Julian?" 

"Yes,  Barbara,  I  shall  not  let  you  have  one  like 
that  when  we  are  married." 

Married!  And  immediately  the  word  set  joy-bells 
ringing  and  clashing  all  over  the  world — or  at  least 
they  felt  it  to  be  so  as  they  clung  together  in  crossing 
the  road.  They  had  such  a  delightful  sense  of  safety, 
of  belonging  to  each  other. 

But  these  things  can  never  be  told  at  the  time  by 
true  lovers,  and  Brooke  just  said  fervently:  "We'll 
spend  our  honeymoon  at  Cheltenham.  We  must  take 
lodgings  in  an  old  house  like  the  one  we  went  into 
that  afternoon.  But  you'll  be  my  wife  this  time — 
my  own  wife.  Will  you  go  there,  Barbara?" 


WHAT  REMAINS 311 

"Yes."  She  paused  a  moment.  "Oh,  Julian,  I 
can't  believe  it  yet.  It  seems  like  a  dream,  when  I 
think  how  miserable  I  was  only  on  Saturday  morning." 

He  pressed  her  arm,  looking  down  at  her  rather 
gravely — 

"It  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  you  are  miserable  any 
more  so  long  as  you  live,"  he  said. 

"I  can't  be  if  I  have  you,"  said  Barbara. 

"No!"  he  answered.  "We  can  never  be  really  un- 
happy now,  whatever  happens,  so  long  as  we  have  each 
other." 

Thus  wrapped  warmly  in  their  dream,  so  that  the 
cold  realities  could  not  come  near  them,  they  turned 
off  the  main  road  into  the  little,  dull  streets  that  lay 
near  Barbara's  home.  They  talked  of  Canada  until 
they  saw,  instead  of  the  grimy,  narrow  houses,  great 
vistas  of  wind-swept  sky  and  flowery  orchards  always 
in  the  sunshine,  and  there  was  a  straight  road  running 
through  it  all  which  was  their  own  lives.  The  sounds 
of  Flodmouth  remained  quite  unnoticed,  as  usual,  but 
after  a  while  they  gave  to  Barbara's  thoughts  the  sort 
of  tenderness  the  exile  feels  when  hearing  songs,  not 
beautiful  in  themselves,  which  have  been  known  long 
and  may  never  be  heard  any  more.  She  was  aware  of 
a  great  kindness  for  the  town  where  she  was  born. 

But  it  was  only  late  in  the  evening  when  the  pleasant 
family  meal  was  over  and  the  lovers  were  alone,  that 
they  fully  realised  the  depth  of  their  love  for  each 
other.  They  had  so  suffered  each  for  the  other  that 
every  word  of  love  and  every  caress  was  like  some- 
thing given  back  to  them  which  they  had  thought  to 
have  lost  for  ever. 


312 THE  SILENT  LEGION 

When  the  young  people  had  gone  to  bed,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Simpson  sat  silently  before  the  fire,  for  they  were 
not  young  and  they  were  tired. 

After  a  while  Mr.  Simpson  said,  bestirring  himself : 
"I  think  Barbara  has  chosen  the  right  one." 

"Yes;  it's  nice  to  see  them  so  happy,"  said  Mrs. 
Simpson. 

"And  we  are  very  comfortable  here,"  said  Mr.  Simp- 
son, unconsciously  answering  something  wistful  in  his 
wife's  voice.  "Oh,  we  shall  be  as  snug  as  a  bug  in  a 
rug  here." 

"Yes,  you  can  so  soon  get  this  room  nice  and  warm," 
said  Mrs.  Simpson.  "That  is  a  great  thing  when  people 
are  growing  old  like  you  and  me,  Sam." 

"Of  course  it  is.  We  shouldn't  want  large  rooms 
for  just  us  two  even  if  we  could  afford  them.  The 
children  all  gone " 

"No,  this  house  is  exactly  the  thing  for  us  now." 

They  were  silent  again,  both  thinking  of  Jim;  they 
were  able  to  look  with  hope  and  joy  through  the  win- 
dow their  boy  had  left  open. 

And  above  them  the  banner  floated. 


THE  END 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

MARY  ROBERTS    RINEHART 

May  be  hart  wherever  books  are  sold.    Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

"K."     Illustrated. 

K.  LeMoyne,  famous  surgeon,  drops  out  of  the  world  that 
has  known  him,  and  goes  to  live  in  a  little  town  where 
beautiful  Sidney  Page  lives.  She  is  in  training  to  become  a 
nurse.  The  joys  and  troubles  of  their  young  love  are  told 
with  that  keen  and  sympathetic  appreciation  which  ha& 
made  the  author  famous. 

THE  MAN  IN  LOWER  TEN. 
Illustrated  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

An  absorbing  detective  story  woven  around  the  mysteri- 
ous death  of  the  "Man  in  Lower  Ten."  The  strongest 
elements  of  Mrs.  Rinehart's  success  are  found  in  this  book. 

WHEN  A  MAN  MARRIES. 

Illustrated  by  Harrison  Fisher  and  Mayo  Bunker. 

A  young  artist,  whose  wife  had  recently  divorced  him, 
finds  that  his  aunt  is  soon  to  visit  him.  The  aunt,  who 
contributes  to  the  family  income  and  who  has  never  seen 
the  wife,  knows  nothing  of  the  domestic  upheaval.  How 
the  young  man  met  the  situation  is  humorously  and  most 
entertainingly  told. 

THE  CIRCULAR  STAIRCASE.     Illus.  by  Lester  Ralph. 

The  summer  occupants  of  "Sunnyside"  find  the  dead 
body  of  Arnold  Armstrong,  the  son  of  the  owner,  on  the  cir- 
cular staircase.  Following  the  murder  a  bank  failure  is  an- 
nounced. Around  these  two  events  is  woven  a  plot  of 
absorbing  interest. 

THE  STREET  OF  SEVEN  STARS. 
Illustrated  (Photo  Play  Edition.) 

Harmony  Wells,  studying  in  Vienna  to  be  a  great  vio- 
linist, suddenly  realizes  that  her  money  is  almost  gone.  She 
meets  a  young  ambitious  doctor  who  offers  her  chivalry  and 
sympathy,  and  together  with  world-worn  Dr.  Anna  and 
Jimmie,  the  waif,  they  share  their  love  and  slender  means. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


BOOTH     TARKINGTON'S 
NOVELS 

May  ba  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask'for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

SEVENTEEN.    Illustrated  by  Arthur  William  Brown. 

No  one  but  the  creator  of  Penrod  could  have  portrayed 
the  immortal  young  people  of  this  story.  Its  humor  is  irre- 
sistible and  reminiscent  of  the  tune  when  the  reader  was 
Seventeen. 

PENROD.    Illustrated  by  Gordon  Grant. 

This  is  a  picture  of  a  boy's  heart,  full  of  the  lovable,  hu- 
morous, tragic  things  which  are  locked  secrets  to  most  older 
folks.  It  is  a  finished,  exquisite  work. 

PENROD  AND  SAM.  Illustrated  by  Worth  Brehm. 

Like  "  Penrod "  and  "  Seventeen,"  this  book  contains 
some  remarkable  phases  of  real  boyhood  and  some  of  the  best 
stories  of  juvenile  prankishness  that  have  ever  been  written. 

THE  TURMOIL.    Illustrated  by  C.  E.  Chambers. 

Bibbs  Sheridan  is  a  dreamy,  imaginative  youth,  who  re- 
volts against  his  father's  plans  for  him  to  be  a  servitor  of 
big  business.  The  love  of  a  fine  girl  turns  Bibb's  life  fiom 
failure  to  success. 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA.    Frontispiece. 

A  story  of  love  and  politics, — more  especially  a  picture  of 
a  country  editor's  life  in  Indiana,  but  the  charm  of  the  book 
lies  in  the  love  interest. 

THE  FLIRT.    Illustrated  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 

The  "  Flirt,"  the  younger  of  two  sisters,  breaks  one  girl's 
engagement,  drives  one  man  to  suicide,  causes  the  murder 
of  another,  leads  another  to  lose  his  fortune,  and  in  the  end 
marries  a  stupid  and  unpromising  suitor,  leaving  the  really 
worthy  one  to  marry  her  sister. 

Aak  for  Complete  free  list  of  G.    &  D.    Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


KATHLEEN  NORRIS'   STORIES 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.       Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

MOTHER.    Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  book  has  a  fairy-story  touch,  [counterbalanced  by 
the  sturdy  reality  of  struggle,  sacrifice,  and  resulting  peace 
and  power  of  a  mother's  experiences. 

SATURDAY'S  CHILD. 
Frontispiece  by  F.  Graham  Cootes. 

Out  on  the  Pacific  coast  a  normal  girl,  obscure  and  lovely, 
makes~  a  quest  for  happiness.  She  passes  through  three 
stages — poverty,  wealth  and  service — and  works  out  a 
creditable  salvation. 

THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE. 
Illustrated  by  Lucius  H.  Hitchcock. 

The  story  £of  a  sensible  woman  who~keeps  within  her 
means,  refuses  to  be  swamped  by  social  engagements,  lives 
a  normal  human  life  of  varied  interests,  and  has  her  own 
romance. 

THE  STORY  OF  JULIA  PAGE. 

Frontispiece  by  Allan  Gilbert. 

How  Julia  Page,  reared  hi  rather  unpromising  surround- 
ings, lifted  herself  through  sheer  determination  to  a  higher 
plane  of  life. 

THE  HEART  OF  RACHAEL. 

Frontispiece  by  Charles  E.  Chambers. 

Eachael  is  called  upon  to  solve  many  problems,  and  in 
working  out  these,  there  is  shown  the  beauty  and  strength 
of  soul  of  one  of  fiction's  most  appealing  characters. 

Ask    for  Complete   free  list  of  G.  &   D,   Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


SEWELL    FORD'S  STORIES 

May  b«  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Cresset  &  Duniap's  i.:si 

SHORTY  McCABE.      Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

A  very  hu  norous  story,    The  hero,  an  independent  and  vigorous 
thinker,  sees  life,  and  tells  about  it  in  a  very  unconventional  way. 
SIDE-STEPPING  WITH  SHORTY. 
Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

Twenty  skits,    presenting  people  with  their   foibles,     Sympathy 
with  human  nature  and  an  abounding  sense  of  humor  are  the  requi- 
sites for  "side-stepping  with  Shorty." 
SHORTY  McCABE  ON  THE  JOB. 
Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

Shorty  McCabe  reappears  with  his  figures  of  speech  revamped 
right  up  to   the  minute.      He  aids  in    the  right  distribution  of  a 
"consaience   fund,"    and   gives  joy  to   all   concerned. 
SHORTY  McCABE'S  ODD  NUMBERS, 
Illustrated  by  Francis  Vaux  Wilson. 

These  further  chronicles  of  Shorty  McCabe  tell  of  his  studio  for 
physical  culture,  and  of  his  experiences  both  on  the  East  side  and  at 
swell  yachting  parties. 
TORCHY.      Illus,  by  Geo.  Biehm  and  Jas.  Montgomery  Flagg. 

A   red-headed  office  boy,  overflowing   with  wit  and  wisdom  pe- 
culiar to  the  youths  reared  on  the  sidewalks  of  New  York,  tells  the 
story  of  his  experiences. 
TRYING  OUT  TORCHY.      Illustrated  by  F.  Foster  Lincoln. 

Torchy    is  just  as  deliriously  funny  in  these  stories  as  he  was  in 
the  previous  book. 
ON  WITH  TORCHY.      Illustrated  by  F.  Foster  Lincoln. 

Torchy  falls  desperately  in  love  with  "the  only  girl  that  ever 
was,"  but  that  young  society  woman's  aunt  tries  to  keep  the  young 
people  apart,  which  brings  about  many  hilariously  funny  situations 
TORCHY,  PRIVATE  SEC.  Illustrated  by  F.  Foster  Lincoln. 

Torchy  rises  from  the  position  of  office  boy  to  that  of  secretary 
for  the  Corrugated  Iron  Company.  The  story  is  full  of  huraor  and 
Infectious  American  slang.  , 

WILT  THOU  TORCHY.      Illus.  by  F.  Snapp  and  A.  W.  Brown. 

Torchy  goes  on  a  treasure  search  expedition  to  the  Florida  West 
Coast,  in  company  with  a  group  of  friends  of  the  Corrugated  Trust 
and  with  his  friend's  aunt,  on  which  trip  Torchy  wins  the  aunt's 
permission  to  place  an  engagement  ring  on  Vee's  finger. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


JAMES   OLIVER  CURWOOD'S 

STORIES   OF    ADVENTURE 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  and  Buolap's  list 

KAZAN 

The  tale  of  a  "  quarter-strain  wolf  and  three-quarters  husky ' ' 
torn  between  the  call  of  the  human  and  his  wild  mate. 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

The  story  of  the  son  of  the  blind  Grey  Wolf  and  the  gallant 
part  he  played  in  the  lives  of  a  man  and  a  woman. 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

The  story  of  the  King  of  Beaver  Island,  a  Mormon  colony, 
and  his  battle  with  Captain  Plum. 
THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

A  tale  of  snow,  of  love,  of  Indian  vengeance,  and  a  mystery 
of  the  North. 

THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

A  tale  of  the  "end  of  the  line,"  and  of  a  great  fight  in  the 
"valley  of  gold"  for  a  woman. 
THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  Fort  o'  God,  where  the  wild  flavor  of  the  wilder- 
ness is  blended  with  the  courtly  atmosphere  of  France. 
THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

The  story  of  Thor,  the  big  grizzly  who  lived  in  a  valley  where 
man  had  never  come.  ^ 

ISOBEL 

A  love  story  of  the  Far  North. 
THE  WOLF  HUNTERS 

A  thrilling  tale  of  adventure  in  the  Canadian  wilderness. 
THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

The  story  of  adventure  in  the  Hudson  Bay  wilds. 
THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Filled  with  exciting  incidents  in  the  land  of  itrong  men  and 
women. 

BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 

A  thrilling  story  of  the  Far  North,     The  great  Photoplay  was 
Made  from  this  book. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


RALPH    CONNOR'S  STORIES 

OF   THE    NORTHWEST 

May  be  had  wherever  books  ire  sold.        Ask  for  Grossat  &  Dunlap's  list 


The  clean-hearted,  strong-limbed  man  of  the  West  leaves 
his  hills  and  forests  to  fight  the  battle  for  freedom  in  the 
old  world. 
BLACK  ROCK 

A  story  of  strong  men  in  the  mountains  of  the  West. 
THE  SKY  PILOT 

A  story  of  cowboy  life,  abounding  in  the  freshest  humor, 
the  truest  tenderness  and  the  finest  courage. 
THE  PROSPECTOR 

A  tale  of  the  foothills  and  of  the  man  who  came  to  them 
to  lend  a  hand  to  the  lonely  men  and  women  who  needed  a 
protector. 

THE  MAN  FROM  GLENGARRY 

This  narrative  brings  us  into  contact  with  elemental  and 
volcanic  human  nature  and  with  a  hero  whose  power  breathes 
from  every  word. 
GLENGARRY  SCHOOL  DAYS 

In  this  rough  country  of  Glengarry,  Ralph  Connor  has 
found  human  nature  in  the  rough. 
THE  DOCTOR 

The  story   of  a  "preacher-doctor"  whom  big  men  and 
reckless  men  loved  for  hia  unselfish  life  among  them. 
THE  FOREIGNER 

A  tale  of  the  Saskatchewan  and  of  a  "  foreigner "  who 
made  a  brave  and  winning  fight  for  manhood  and  love. 
CORPORAL  CAMERON 

This  splendid  type  of  the  upright,  out-of-door  man  about 
which  Ralph  Connor  builds  all  his  stories,  appears  again  in 
this  book. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,       'NEW  YORK 


THE  NOVELS  OF 
GRACE    LIVINGSTON    HILL     LUTZ 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  G'rosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

THE  BEST  MAN 

Through  a  strange  series  of  adventures  a  young  man  finds 
himself  propelled  up  the  aisle  of  a  church  and  married  to  a 
strange  girl. 

A  VOICE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

On  her  way  West  the  heroine  steps  off  by  mistake  at  a  lonely 
watertank  into  a  maze  of  thrilling  events. 

THE  ENCHANTED  BARN 

Every  member  of  the  family  will  enjoy  this  spirited  chronicle 
of  a  young  girl's  resourcefulness  and  pluck,  and  the  secret  of 
the  ' '  enchanted ' '  barn. 

TH-E  WITNESS 

The  fascinating  story  of  the  enormous  change  an  incident 
wrought  in  a  man's  life. 

MARCIA  SCHUYLER 

A  picture  of  ideal  girlhood  set  in  the  time  of  full  skirts  and 
poke  bonnets. 

LO,   MICHAEL  ! 

A  story  of  unfailing  appeal  to  all  who  love  and  understand  boys. 
THE  MAN  OF  THE  DESERT 

An  intensely  moving  love  story  of  a  man  of  the  desert  and  a 
girl  of  the  East  pictured  against  the  background  of  the  Far  West. 

PHOEBE  DEANE 

A  tense  and  charming  love  story,  told  with  a  grace  and  a  fer- 
vor with  which  only  Mrs.  Lutz  could  tell  it. 

DAWN  OF  THE  MORNING 

A  romance  of  the  last  century  with  all  of  its  old-fashioned 
charm.  A  companion  volume  to  ' '  Marcia  Schuyler ' '  and 
"Phoebe  Deane." 

Ask  for  Complete  free  list  of  G.    &  D.    Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


"  STORM  COUNTRY  "  BOOKS  BY 

GRACE  MILLER  WHITE 

Kay  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grossst  &  Dtinlap's  list. 

JUDY  OF  ROGUES'  HARBOR 

Judy's  untutored  ideas  of  God,  her  love  of  wild  things, 
her  faith  in  life  are  quite  as  inspiring  as  those  of  Tess. 
Her  faith  and  sincerity  catch  at  your  heart  strings.  This 
book  has  all  of  the  mystery  and  tense  action  of  the  other 
Storm  Country  books. 

TESS  OF  THE  STORM  COUNTRY 

It  was  as  Tess,  beautiful,  wild,  impetuous,  that  Mary 
Pickford  made  her  reputation  as  a  motion  picture  actress. 
How  love  acts  upon  a  temperament  such  as  hers — a  tem- 
perament that  makes  a  woman  an  angel  or  an  outcast,  ac- 
cording to  the  character  of  the  man  she  loves — is  the 
theme  of  the  story. 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  STORM  COUNTRY 

The  sequel  to  "  Tess  of  the  Storm  Country,"  with  the 
same  wild  background,  with  its  half-gypsy  We  of  the  squat- 
ters— tempestuous,  passionate,  brooding.  Tess  learns  the 
"  secret "  of  her  birth  and  finds  happiness  and  love  through 
her  boundless  faith  in  life. 

FROM  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MISSING 

A  haunting  story  with  its  scene  laid  near  the  country 
familiar  to  readers  of  "  Tess  of  the  Storm  Country." 

ROSE  O'  PARADISE 

"  Jinny"  Singleton,  wild,  lovely,  lonely,  but  with  a  pas-  ( 
sionate  yearning  for  music,  grows  up  in  the  house  of  Lafe 
Grandoken,  a  crippled  cobbler  of  the  Storm  Country.  Her 
romance  is  full  of  power  and  glory  and  tenderness. 

A»k    for  Complete   free  list  of  G.   &   D.   Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


A     000128206     o 


